Choking on the Bone
by Lady Anatui
Summary: CharlieOC, slight NeilOC. Welton is now coed, and Charlie is finding it difficult to keep his hands to himself, even if the one girl he's absolutely smitten with hates his guts and won't go near him unless he stops smoking.
1. Coeducation

**_Choking on the Bone_**

_All right, so I'm such a freak that I decided to rewrite the entirety of what I've already written on this story. I hadn't planned on elongating it this much, but over five thousand words is better than nearly two thousand, right? I guess. I decided to do this because I wanted to get more into the characters. Before it seemed very... impersonal, if that's a word. I don't care enough to check at the moment. Also, I've really been getting into the first person present tense thing recently, so I've decided to put that into a chapter story. The most I've ever done it in is a five-thousand-word one-shot, which I liked very much--not that it's on this site, though. Anyway, those are my reasons for changing it the way I did._

_Now, for those of you who have not previously read this story, let it be known that this is a little bit AU. This is set up as if, when Neil told Mr. Keating that his father allowed him to continue with the play and possibly let him stay with acting, Neil wasn't lying. That's the major difference. Because of that, his father didn't get pissed off, he didn't commit suicide, Cameron didn't rat on them, Charlie didn't punch him and get expelled, and Mr. Keating was never fired. However, there is still some tension between Mr. Keating and the administration, but he remained teacher for the rest of the 1959-1960 school year and now, the next school year, he is still a teacher there. Then, after that, Welton went coed. There are only twenty-three girls that begin and only three of those are in the boys' grade, but it's new and exciting for them all._

_I know this idea isn't new--not in the least--but I felt like doing it anyway. And I would have loved to have been able to do this all with the story left as it was, but the aura and everything else wouldn't be how I want it so I've decided to change it. I have, however, written several one-shots that do include the entire movie left as it is. Furthermore, I have yet to write anything slash, but I'm sure I will eventually. I'm not a very slashy sort of person, really, but I suppose that I'll write it eventually anyway._

_Thank you so much for your time and patience, Anatui_

_Oh, and I mustn't forget my disclaimer: Dead Poets Society does not belong to me. It would be so wonderful if it did, but it doesn't so there's not much more to say on the matter. Also, there is a section of poetry near the end of this chapter that doesn't belong to me either. It's the first stanza of 'Wondrous Moment' by Alexander Pushkin as explained in further chapters. Oh, and I don't own Webster Dictionary._

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Chapter 1 – Coeducation._ (Charlie's POV) 

It's a wonderful word really. I don't think I'll forget the day when I found out about it. My father was actually the one to tell me. Neil's parents had called and told him, and he was reading an article about it in the paper when I went down for breakfast. He was terribly furious about it. I really don't know why. I guess he feels the same way that Mr. Nolan does: that girls don't need an education as expensive or as good as boys. Ridiculous, really. Luckily, the small protest formed by a women's rights organization overruled his opinions and the administration finally gave in.

Ah, how I greatly enjoy that word. Coeducation, coeducation. The more times I repeat it, the more I enjoy it. My Webster Dictionary says this about it:

_**Coeducation **_n _: the education of students of both sexes at the same institution_

You know, I've always wondered why dictionaries and all professionals use the term 'sex' instead of 'gender'. I'm not complaining. It's just that when I hear that word, even used in that context, my mind… er, drifts elsewhere. It's a distraction, really, to those people with hormones. I'm sure I'm not the only one. If I were… that'd be a bit weird, don't you think?

Of course, when I think like that, it might just be because it's difficult to satisfy my hormones when I'm surrounded by uptight male teachers and a bunch of guys that are my friends. Why do you think I so recklessly pulled that stunt about the article in the school paper for girls to be admitted to Welton last year? Come on! It's not because I wasn't horny. How could I not be? I'm a teenage boy, and, no matter what society says about it, my life has a certain drive that those not of mating age lack. Hey, it's not my fault. It's in the nature of the world. I just act on instinct, which, for some asinine reason, is thought indecent in the world of today. I just don't understand it.

It is rather doubtful that many girls will be attending Welton this coming year, but a couple is better than none. It is just starting now, so, according to the paper, there are only twenty-three girls attending—that's in all grades, though. Still, twenty-three! That might just be my new favorite number. Of course, not even half of those are within the proper dating age range, but still!

And so, blissfully, I begin my day and my journey back to the horrible Hell-ton, but, for some reason, I have a feeling this will be a good year. Girls, the Society still up and running, Mr. Keating still teaching. What more could possibly happen to make this year any better? …Actually, now that you mention it, I can think of a couple things, but I doubt very much that my parents will give up on their young Mr. Future Banker, as Neil dubbed me. So it won't be the best year it could possibly be, but, considering all the circumstances and the possibilities and the prospects, I think it'll end up being a great year, despite the certain aspects it may lack.

With high hopes and a sad, twisted desire for the new school year to begin, I go through my morning rituals: bathing, dressing, eating breakfast, dragging my luggage to our car. And, then, after that, we drive toward Welton. We don't really live all that far away from the school, so it only takes an hour to get there when, for many others, I know for certain it takes much longer.

During Mr. Nolan's beginning-of-the-year speech, I do my best to listen. All right, I take that back. I only really listen to the one part at the end where he welcomes the girls to the school and asks the boys to all be 'gentlemanly' to them. He's kidding, right? What guy is really going to be a gentleman to them? Well, there's always Neil, but he's a gentleman to… everyone, except maybe me sometimes when he's telling me to shut up about bugging Cameron. But the guy's an annoying goody-goody, so can you really blame me for bugging him all the time? He brings it on himself. I just hope I don't have to be in the same room as him like last year.

That's when the fun actually begins. My parents leave—thank God, because they're really such hindrances to teenagers—and I run into Knox, one of my two best friends. Together, we go off to discover that I am, indeed, not going to spend another year in the same dorm as Cameron—at this point, I'm thanking God so much that, if He hasn't forgiven me for my phone call stunt last year, there's nothing left I could possibly say or do to change His mind—and that I'll instead be in the same dorm as Knox this year. What a lovely, happy, wonderful surprise!

With only a couple seconds in our dormitory, we easily drop off our suitcases and take a quick walk around the halls of the familiar building. Quite easily, we find Neil and Todd in their own room, which they coincidentally share once again, and I knock a short rhythm on the doorframe like I would on my bongo drums to catch the two boys' attention. Both boys, Neil sitting on his bed next to his open suitcase and Todd standing up in the middle of the room, look over at the noise.

"Hey, guys," Knox says with a smile as we enter the room. He easily commandeers Todd's bed, which causes me to send an obnoxious scowl his way. The little thief! I wanted that bed! Disgruntled, I resort to sitting in chair, and, apparently, the look on my face makes the others laugh. We all exchange greetings—mostly Neil and Knox, but that's just them being them—and the room is filled with lovely and rather boring Smalltalk.

"How was your summer, Todd?" asks Knox in his silly polite manner.

"Fine," the boy responds—amazingly without a stutter. I'm sure Neil is growing rather proud of the boy for getting more comfortable around people. He's really more fun to hang around with now that he's loosened up some. He's way better than Cameron, at least.

"Study group?" suggests someone from the doorway. We glance over to see Pitts, tall as the sun above (not that we can see it, mind you), standing there.

Meeks is nowhere to be found, but we know he's around here somewhere. And Cameron… I don't care, but we all know he would be in his dorm, making sure everything is in order and in its proper place. He's like Susie Homemaker or something. Everyone else seems to be present.

"Already?" I ask almost incredulously. With all the excitement around here, how could they possibly want to study? Of all asinine and atrocious things in the world, _studying_? I don't understand them sometimes.

"Oh, so you don't want to be in the study group this year?" laughs Neil, raising an eyebrow at me, which amuses me and yet also annoys me at the same time. Damn him, even if he is my best friend.

"Why would I want to study when this year is going to be so great?" I return with a small smirk.

Knox laughs from across the room. Damn him, too, even if he's my other best friend. "What you really mean is, why would you want to study when you could be out with a girl, right?" he reasons with that strange smile of his. Yes, definitely damn him.

Not a word issues from my mouth. All I do is show off my devilishly handsome and infamous smirk to them. My personal favorite feature, really.

"You do know that there are only three girls that are actually in our grade, right?" says Neil, his eyes half-closed with mirth. Definitely damn him, too. "Is that really enough for you?"

I think Knox is even more amused by what Neil says, though, because he continues, "Three? As opposed to zero? Come on, Neil. You're just thrilling him even more. Cut it out before he bursts of excitement."

"You're making it seem like he's going to be with all three girls at the same time," Pitts said with all seriousness possible in the situation. He pauses for a moment before saying, "I doubt he'd be able to convince them all to have sex with a guy who calls himself Nuwanda."

What do they think I am? A whore? Au contraire, I am anything but. First of all, I'd need to be a girl for that. Second, I don't have sex for money. I have it for fun… and, of course, to ease those aching hormones in a lovely, delectable way—and I don't think I could possibly see how someone could argue with that. There are just some people I'll never be able to understand—them or their way of thinking.

"I'm not going to _burst_," I snap.

They all look at me, and even Todd has the audacity to laugh. All right, screw it. Damn them all, even if they're _all_ my friends. They're all too annoying anyway. Meeks, too, even though he's not here. Oh, damn, but then I'd be stuck with Cameron, and I do not want that! Hmm, I could kill him and damn all of them. They're not really disappearing anyway, so I guess it doesn't matter much whether I damn them or not. Damn. What's making them laugh now?

"Uh, Charlie, that's a little off topic now, don't you think?" says Neil, grinning from ear to ear almost. "We're talking about the study group again." His smile takes on a new aura—something a bit more… shall I say, conniving?—and he continues, "Or were you off in some fantasy world?"

"I was not," I defend earnestly. "When?"

"When what?" asks Todd quietly yet curiously.

"Study group," I clarify. "When?"

"Tomorrow night," Knox replies.

My fingers find the pocket of my jacket that I didn't shed in my room for only one reason: ah, the ecstasy of my cigarettes. And I really need a smoke. Inside the pocket, I can feel both my packet and my lighter, and just touching them is enough to make me want them more.

"Somebody close the door," I demand, feeling the need to pull them out and light up a smoke immediately.

Pitts, who is closest and apparently just sat down on the other chair, stands up and moves toward the door to do so, but, from beyond him and at the door, another voice comes to stop him and all of our movements within the room. Oh, it's not Neil's father like he's always afraid it will be, especially after all the surprises his father brought along with him when he came last year, but somebody completely new and different.

Yes, standing there, in all the glory of womanhood and the beauty of… well, womanly beauty, is a girl. The first girl that any of us have seen up close since we got here. She's quite attractive, even if she's a little short—everyone looks short standing next to Pittsie, though, and it's not like I'm all that tall myself—and has a scowl on those pretty, rosy red lips of hers. As beautiful and angelic as she may appear—actually, she doesn't appear all that angelic with her long, sultry waves of chestnut brown hair and dangerously fiery eyes—her voice disproves any theory of her being an angel. The words she had said that made us stop (mostly me, mind you) were, "Why don't you get up off your ass and do it yourself?" Hmm, feisty. I like it.

"Um," says Neil, choking slightly on nothing but air—he would, really—and looking a little nervous—well, not so much as curious—about having a girl here at his dorm, "can we help you?"

With a small groan as my finger grazes the smokes in my pocket, I snap, "Oh, if you're going to come in, come in already and shut the door."

Amazingly, she obliges to the first part, but, not so amazingly, she doesn't to the second. Instead, she leaves the door wide open for anyone to see, sending me a short smirk of triumph until Pitts nervously closes the door behind her and I happily light up my cigarette that I've been itching to have for a while.

"That's disgusting," she spits. I notice a hint of an accent, but it's not very strong when she's spitting at me—not spitting saliva per se, but words. She's very attractive, but the personality is a bit of a letdown. Hmm, maybe I can ignore that. Or maybe she's just defensive because of the unfamiliar surroundings. The hell with it, I don't really care either way. Could be a tiger in bed, anyway.

"What do you want?" I ask rudely.

"I got lost," she admits, not looking at me at all but at Neil. Figures. She obviously can't admit defeat to me because I'm so awesome. Or because that would show weakness or some crap like that. Some people I'll never understand. Or maybe she's attracted to Neil for some weird reason. Actually, I can kind of see that. If I were a girl, I might be attracted to him. But I am so definitely not. I'm as manly as they come. And I'm a complete freak for trying to reassure myself of something I already know. How stupid of me. Hmm. At least I know I'm not dubious about the fact in the least, though. That's _always_ good to know.

Knox begins to speak. "I'm Knox Overstreet," he says, reaching out his hand kindly, which she takes and shakes gratefully. Then he starts trying to explain to her how to reach the girls' dormitories. We all know where they are—not because we're horny teenage boys but because they're in a new structure that they just built over the summer break. Mr. Nolan had told us about the construction at the end of term last year, but he hadn't said what it was for and we hadn't realized until the article in the paper and all the other stuff. It's kind of scary to think that this was all going on behind our backs even before summer break, but that doesn't really matter.

However, I interrupt him with a small hand motion that I know for certain he sees because he immediately trails off, causing this girl to look confused for a moment and then a little bit irritated. In the meanwhile, I stand up, dropping my beloved cigarette on the floor and smashing it beneath my shoe, and say, "I can help you out," easily catching the girl's attention. I send Pitts a small devious look, letting him know that I took his last statement to me as a challenge, as I say, "The name's Charlie Dalton, but I'd prefer you to call me Nuwanda."

She appears rather taken aback at my statement but she quickly recovers. "Moira O'Brien." With that name, I easily place the accent I had previously noticed. It's Irish. Almost uneasily, she glances at the other boys here, hoping that they intervene or something. They do… kind of.

"Oh, by the way," says Neil hurriedly, "I'm Neil Perry."

She seems somewhat grateful for that, and I know for certain I'm not. Didn't I already damn him multiple times, though? Oh well.

"And this is Todd Anderson," Neil continues, pointing out Todd, who is a little bit too nervous to present himself properly to a lady… as if she's really a lady, though.

She nods at both of them with a smile, which is a very nice smile, by the way.

"I'm Gerard Pitts," adds Pittsie.

Knox just smiles at her as he's already introduced himself.

"It's lovely to meet all of you," she says.

I grin and move toward the door. "Yeah, that's nice," I say. "Come on, I'll show you around the grounds." I open the door again and step out, awaiting her to follow me. It takes a moment, but she complies eventually after bidding the others farewell.

From our place right outside the door, I know we can both hear what's said inside the dorm as we listen to Todd move toward his desk and chair that I had just so recently occupied. "Do you think it's safe for her to go with him?" asks Todd a bit nervously.

Knox laughs at the words. "Whether it is or whether it isn't, I don't want to be the one to question Charlie… at least not to his face. His motives have always been a bit… er, shall we say, skewed?"

I know for certain that I have a smirk right now as I glance over at the Irish girl, who's currently waiting for me to move with a scowl on her face. And so I decide it's time to begin our short journey across the school campus.

"Are you sure of your way?" I hear her ask, and her voice sounds like she's just eaten something that tastes foul.

I shrug cockily, something which I didn't even know could be done cockily until now, and reply, "Of course I am." I glance back at her as we reach the staircase and notice that she wishes for me to elaborate. Just to please her (and I guess to amuse myself), I explain to her what I've already mentioned here: that all the girls' dormitories are in the new building that they made over the summer.

Not wanting to let all conversation die, I add, "Say, how did you end up in our building, anyway?" It's a perfectly valid question, after all. It's a completely boys area, so it's rather odd to see a girl there. But then I might not have met her… well, not so soon anyway. She looks about our age, so I wouldn't be surprised if I see her during other things… like, I don't know, classes or something.

She pauses a moment to adjust her large bag on her shoulder, something I had completely overlooked before now, and I stop with her, only to continue when she does so that we walk side by side. "I was talking to Ricky," she finally answers. Her voice is no longer as if she's smelling something putrid, which is a bit nice and yet also less satisfying. Hmm. I have a strange, sadistic humor, don't I?

"Ricky?" I say, furrowing my brow. I don't recognize the name. But then I think that it could easily be short for something. It's definitely not what a parent of the kids sent here would name their child. "I don't know a Ricky."

She rolls her eyes like it isn't any surprise. "I doubt you like him."

"You know so much about me already?"

"I've actually heard of you once or twice from him. He doesn't really care for you. Apparently, in sixth grade, you played an awful trick on him. He was friends with a kid you call Spaz at that time, and you absolutely loathed each other."

I can barely believe my ears. I know that story quite well, but it sounds a lot better when I tell it. Finally, I manage to say, "You were talking to _Cameron_? Why would you ever talk to Cameron of all people?"

She laughs mirthlessly. "So you do know him. What's your point?"

"As in Richard Cameron?" I clarify. Just to be sure. I don't want to end up having it mistaken—not that I could.

"Yes, Richard Cameron," she says. "What's so wrong with him? He's a perfectly fantastic person."

I smirk and laugh and possibly snort a little at what she says. "What world are you living in, Irish?"

"The same one as you, Mr. Dalton," she replies curtly. I don't think she enjoyed me calling her Irish.

We finally exit the building and follow a small walkway covered by an awning above us. It's a short distance to the girls' small two-story building, and we lapse into a sort of silence that's only slightly awkward.

"You are Irish, aren't you?" I ask, tilting my head to the side as I glance down at her. "I didn't offend you when I said that, did I?"

"No," she snaps.

"No to what?"

"I am indeed Irish," she amends, "but you did not offend me, Dalton." She takes a deep breath, huffs, then continues with what she was saying. "I was just wondering if you called me that because you're discriminating against me in some odd way or if it was because you had already forgotten my name."

I scowl at her. "Moira O'Brien," I say, just to prove that I do actually recollect her name. "I wasn't discriminating either. I was just… having fun."

She snorts—and it's the strangest thing I've ever experienced, hearing a girl snort. There's something extremely odd about Miss Moira O'Brien. She's definitely not normal. She uses lewd language, she mocks me, and now she snorts, too. Most indubitably different from every other girl I've met. And it's not attractive in the least. The only reason I'm here is to prove a point, though, and not because of any attraction I might feel toward this girl. What Pitts said was a challenge. I can get any girl, even with the name Nuwanda. What is he saying about my chosen name, anyway?

"Oh, is that what you Americans call it?" she laughs.

"Now you're the one discriminating," I snap back deviously. Eager to change the subject for some reason as yet unknown to myself, I say, "How do you know Cameron?" Not that I really give a damn, but I suppose I should make a bit of an effort since she's proving difficult.

"Our parents are friends," she explains, keeping her statement short and unfriendly.

We enter the door to the newest construction at Welton Academy and I hold it open for her. She walks inside without so much as a courtesy nod. Hmm, I should make sure to add 'rude' or 'unappreciative' to that previous list I was making. I show her the common room, showers, and laundry facility on the ground floor. They're in exactly the same places as the ones in the boys' section. Then, we make our way up the small staircase to the second floor of the building and locate her dormitory.

Her room is empty when we open the door, but someone else has dropped off their things onto one of the beds. I make my way to the bed that is obviously hers and lay down on it, eager to both relax and annoy her. I watch her groan at my actions and set her bag down on the chair at the desk that is obviously hers and turn on me. "What?" I question as innocently as I can.

"Get off my bed," she demands.

"Awfully demanding, aren't we?" I grin.

"Awfully obnoxious, aren't we?" she sends back easily.

I nod enthusiastically at her words and say, "Oh, I most definitely am, Irish."

"Off!" Ah, so she's finally resorted to yelling. Took her long enough. I've definitely been waiting for it. To tell the truth, she's actually more attractive whilst yelling than whilst not. The look in her eyes is dangerous and yet… I don't know what it is, but I like it and I definitely like to know that I'm the one that made that happen.

"I say you get on," I challenge with my smirk.

"I say that I will never get on the same bed as you," she snarls angrily.

I just laugh, as silly as that may sound. "Never say 'never', Irish. And never say 'always'. Especially on a science test because those are always the questions you get wrong." I grin before amending my last statement, "Well, not necessarily _always_."

She rolls her eyes at me. "Why are you still here, Dalton?"

With a shrug, I reply, "I like being around you."

"No, you don't," declares Moira with a short humorless laugh.

"You know exactly what I feel now, too, huh?"

"I do not, and I don't want to. I'm sickened enough by you as it is that I don't want to know every little dirty detail of what you're thinking."

"How do you know there are a bunch of dirty details in my head?"

She snorts again. "All I have to do is look at you and I can tell. God, Dalton, you don't even try to cover up the fact that you're perverted in every way possible."

"Why should I if it's so blatantly obvious?"

"I mean that it's so blatantly obvious _because_ you don't try."

"I understood completely, Irish. Don't try to make me out to be stupid, too."

"Well, how am I to know what you are and what you aren't? You're the one that's making a horrible first impression."

"Yours isn't too splendid either, Irish."

We move into another one of those strange yet somehow not really awkward silences again. I don't know why, but it's unnerving at the same time that it's relaxing. I really just don't understand her. Of all the things in this world that I don't understand, which has recently grown to a rather large amount of things, she tops it all off. She is the weirdest person I have ever met in my entire life. She lives in a time where women are told to sit down, shut up, and become a stupid little housewife but she's not going to shut up about her views on anything unless I cover that mouth up with something. Hmm, that could prove interesting… and possibly fun. It's really the strangest thing, though. Well, that and the fact that this is probably the most fun I've had in a long time. Who knew that annoying the hell out of someone could be so damn entertaining? I certainly didn't until now.

I wonder why Cameron kept her a secret for so long. She's obviously lived in Ireland for most of her life to get that accent, but she definitely knows Cameron, too—enough to give him a wretched nickname. Seriously, who in their right mind would call _Cameron_ by the name Ricky? Cameron shouldn't be given a pet name of any sort. It's just… I don't know, wrong.

A short moment later, another girl enters the picture. She's slender—willowy even—and completely different from this Irish girl. Her hair is pulled back into little, golden ringlets that frame her oval face. She's easily my height with eyes of green-hazel.

In one look, I can tell that she's just as beautiful as Moira but in a completely different way. While Moira is strong and fervent and full of emotion, this new girl seems very delicate and dainty like some doll. I'm not sure which is more attractive at the moment, but I think I'll figure it out eventually.

"Hi!" the blonde girl exclaims ardently as she races into the room and jumps excited. "I'm Jessica Hennessey! You must be my roommate!" Her face is pretty, yes, but her constant voice… not so much.

Moira's reaction to this new girl is… well, quite different from her reaction to _me_. She's actually nice to this girl and not cold and brusque. "It's lovely to meet you," she says with a small smile. "My name is Moira O'Brien." And they shake hands.

To tell the truth, I think I'd pick Irish over this Jessica Hennessey, even if I'm less likely to get laid. And that's a bit strange, but, at the same time, I can understand that. While Jessica is excit_ed_, she isn't excit_ing_. It's the same kind of girl I'm used to, so it completely lacks the adventure of the unknown. For some reason, despite how much she loathes me and how annoying I know she can be, I do enjoy Moira. Hmm, odd.

When Jessica turns to me, she says in that same animated voice, "And who are you?"

With one glance at her, I know all I have to do is something simple and she's head over heals. So I stand up, make my way toward her in the middle of the room, smile, answer her with, "Charlie Dalton," take her hand, bow, and kiss it like a gentleman. Hah, take that Nolan. I can too be a gentleman, even if it's just for those damn hormones. When I straighten my stance, I say something I know for sure will get her to like me:

"_The wondrous moment of our meeting…  
__I well remember you appear  
__Before me like a vision fleeting,  
__A beauty's angel pure and clear._"

It's rather true, I suppose. She's definitely more like an angel than Moira is, but she lacks a certain quality that all angels need to have: the ability to shut up and look beautiful while doing it without looking awkward in the least. She doesn't seem the type to be able to do that.

"Aww, that's so sweet," laughs Jessica, her cheeks growing a rosy blush. "Did you come up with that?"

With a grin, I reply, "I did. Just for you."

Her blush increases, much to my amusement.

Apparently, it isn't to Moira's amusement, though. I can barely hear her snort (again) and mutter, "Alexander Pushkin." She will never cease to amaze me, really. It just so happens that said Alexander Pushkin is actually the author of the poem I just recited.

I let go of Jessica's hand and take another short bow, saying, "Ladies, I fear I must leave you now. 'Twas lovely to meet you, Miss Hennessey." And so I make my way toward the door to leave, but, just as I hear Moira breathe a sigh of relief, I turn back, my hand on the doorframe, sticking my head back inside the room. "Oh, and, Irish, my friends and I are having a study group tomorrow night in the boys' common room. You're welcome to join us. We're starting 'round eight."

Then I really do leave, but I certainly don't miss what she says in response: "I don't like people that smoke!"

On my journey back toward my own dormitory and the others, I know they'll want to hear what happened. I, on the other hand, mostly just want to know why Cameron kept this girl a secret for so long. Hmm, maybe he likes her. That could pose a problem. But, then again, it is Cameron, and I could really care less about him liking a girl. To tell the truth, I'm not even sure if he likes girls.

But I guess I'll have to tell them something. It definitely wasn't anything big. Actually, I think she's more fun to annoy than to woo. Strange but true. And it's certainly nice that she knows poetry (I swear, she really did say, "Alexander Pushkin," back there—it can't just all be in my head).

But she is coming to the study group, so that's got to count toward something. Of course, I know for certain that that's about the time they ask me _how_ I know she's coming. Sure, I can see how some people might think that she hadn't agreed when she said that last thing, but I have a feeling she'll be there, though, sadly, it might not be my doing at all.

I know what Knox will say when I tell him what she said. He'll say that I have to stop smoking if I want this girl. But, really, I'm not even sure if I do want her. She's attractive, yes, and she's probably a wild cat during a romp, but I've never had to change anything for a woman and I don't plan on doing so—definitely not quit smoking, anyway, and definitely not for someone so demanding as her.

Hmm, I really do think this year will be great. The word 'coeducation' still has a certain ring to it that I doubt I'll get over soon. It's beautiful, really. I really do love that word.

* * *

_Well, thank you, everyone, for reading this. Please leave me a review (I love those!)._

_Anatui_


	2. Ignorance Is Bliss

_Chapter 2 – Ignorance Is Bliss._ (Moira's POV)

I hate this place. Sure, I've barely been here, but I hate this place. This is my first night here, and I absolutely hate this stupid school. I'll never understand why my mother had to send me here—to an all boys' school! All right, so it's not all boys' anymore, but it was a couple months ago, so it's just as bad. There may be other girls here, but that doesn't change it much. We're all new here, and we all don't know what the hell we're supposed to do, and I just absolutely, positively hate this damn school.

"What's wrong?" I jump and glance up to see my roommate standing above me worriedly. My face must have shown my emotions or something, because, otherwise, I have no idea why she's so concerned about me. Ditzy little girl, she is—or at least that's what she seems like. I really don't know. But she does seem sincerely worried about my wellbeing.

Lazily, I respond with the most logical explanation with which I can come up without explaining the entirety of my situation and all of the stuff that goes along with it. "Exhausted," I say, heaving a second sigh.

"Are you from Ireland?" she asks curiously.

"Aye, from Dublin," I reply, moving toward the door to close it just short moments after Charlie Dalton's exodus. I glance out to make sure he isn't still hiding somewhere and, thankfully, see no one before shutting it. Sighing once more, I lean against the door for support and try to elaborate on my earlier short answer. "Although, I've spent a rather large amount of time in America. My aunt and uncle live in New Hampshire, so I'm staying with them over the holidays until my schooling here is complete. My mother wants me to get the best education I possibly can, and Welton apparently offers the most," I explain bitterly.

I push away from the door and move toward my bed wearily. I wasn't lying when I said I was exhausted, but that's not what's bugging me. It's this damn school that's bugging me. I really don't want to be here, but my mother just had to send me anyway. I hate her for that. Oh, I take that back. I couldn't possibly hate her, even if I hate her actions. I can be angry with her, but I'll always love her. She is my mother, after all.

My bed is nice and cozy when I reach it, but the warmth of _him_ has almost left it. It's barely been a minute or so since he was lying here, though. And so my thoughts revert back to Charlie Dalton. It's a bit silly, but I don't really know what to call him. Sure, I can call him Dalton to his face, but when I think about him, it just doesn't seem to fit. But neither does just Charlie. I guess for now he'll have to be merely Charlie Dalton. At least I'm not calling him 'Charles' or 'Nuwanda'. Why the hell would he want to be called 'Nuwanda' anyway? He must have some sort of mental deficiency or something. There's seriously some problem with his brain… or his hormones or some other bodily function, but there's just got to be some lever that's up too high or too low or some switch that's been switched and shouldn't have been.

I roll onto my belly and rub my face into my pillow, testing it. It's soft, I guess, but not as soft as my pillow back home. I miss home so much. Why must I constantly compare it all to home? It's not like I'll be back there for a while, anyway. I groan and try to push thoughts of my lovely Ireland out of my head. I need to focus on reality here and not the past. There's a lot I need to do here before I could possibly go back home, so I've just got to accept that.

"How do you know that boy?" My roommate's voice pulls my out of my reverie, and I look up to her quizzically. "Charlie Dalton?" she clarifies uncertainly at the look in my eyes.

I shrug, but I know it's difficult to tell what I really did because of my position. Regretfully, I turn back to verbal responses and say, "I don't. I just met him today when I got lost. He offered to escort me to my room."

"It wasn't that easy to find, though," the blonde smiles as she moves toward her own bed and sits down, still watching me. "Or did you want to be alone with him?"

"I most certainly did not!" I defend incredulously. "He refused to tell me where it was and insisted upon showing me. And I have a feeling that it was partially his fault that Knox stopped explaining where it was."

"He likes you," exclaims Jessica, grinning ecstatically.

I shrug, not caring one way or the other. I could care less about him, so I don't care about how much he cares about me. Besides, I really doubt he could care about a girl unless that girl was his sister. He definitely doesn't seem the type to venture into any sort of relationship at all, even one lasting only a day. It just seems extremely out of character, even though I've only known him for half an hour at most. Strange, really—he already seems so familiar and comfortable. Maybe that's just him being him, though.

"He does," she insists. "Besides, he's cute."

I'm not impressed in the least, though. He may be handsome, but he's not very personable. On second thought, I don't think that's the right word to use. He's quite personable, really, but his conceit doesn't help with people liking him. He does seem to have plenty of friends, though, so who am I to judge?

"Moira?"

"What?" I ask, startled again. Maybe I'm just thinking too much.

Then her face changes from one of concern to one of exhilaration. "Oh! You think he's cute, too, don't you?!" All right, that is definitely not what I was expecting from the girl, but I suppose I can live with surprises.

She is sort of right. He is cute, but the personality is a very large turn off. He's completely egotistical! It doesn't help that he smokes and tells lies to boot. I absolutely loathe smokers and liars—and it's even worse when they're combined into one boy with a smirk and overflowing confidence. With all of that, how could I possibly deem him as cute? Especially when his hands probably wander more than his eyes do!

I shrug again, trying to keep a small nonchalant façade up whilst I think of how to word my response to her question. "I wouldn't really say that," I decide upon. "He is attractive—I can't lie about that—but, when looking beyond the physical appearance, I find him lacking certain qualities that are necessary for a person to be cute."

"Oh, yeah? Like what?"

"Well, modesty is one of them," I snap disdainfully at the remembrance of his small theatrical performance with Alexander Pushkin's poetry. "From what I've seen, he seems to lack that entirely. And also kindness. He lacks that one, too."

"He was kind!" she says resolutely. "He was an utter gentleman. He bowed and kissed my hand. He called us ladies."

I roll onto my backside and look up at the ceiling as I respond, "If you think so. I got the feeling that he was mocking you just a little bit, though. Of course, you're welcome to interpret his actions as you like. I shall remain adamant in my opinion of him, though. Charlie Dalton is anything but a gentleman."

She doesn't seem that convinced, but she doesn't seem that smart either. Then again, I just met this Jessica Hennessey, and I'm not going to try to judge her on this general appearance. For all I know, she could be top in her class…. Yeah, and Charlie Dalton's the sweetest man I've ever met—yeah right! I doubt both of those things very much, but I guess I'll just have to wait and see what the future holds for me.

"You're only saying that because you like him," accuses Jessica with a scowl as she stands up and moves to her suitcase beside her bed. I watch as she lugs it up onto the mattress and opens it before beginning to pull out random objects and place them around her side of the room.

Her statement somewhat surprises me, but, at the same time, considering all else she's said, it's not that surprising. But someone like Dalton (I give up on saying his whole name for the rest of my life) is the kind of person I'm least likely to fancy. Actually, I think he might tie with Ricky, but I've known Ricky for so many years that I could never like him. Besides, he has too much of a holier-than-thou attitude for me. He and Dalton really have nothing in common, but I don't think I could ever possibly have intimate feelings for either of them.

Of all the boys I've met here at Welton, I can't seem to find one that even interests me in the least. The four other boys in the dormitory where I met Dalton just half an hour ago were all nice, but there wasn't enough time to get to know them well enough to judge them properly. Todd Anderson seemed a little shy, which isn't exactly my type of guy. The others… well, I couldn't really tell, but I doubt any of them are my type.

Now that I think about it, though, I don't even know what my type of guy is. I'm so damn picky that I doubt there could ever be a 'perfect guy' for me. No soul mate or anything like that. I'm doomed to be an old maid and live in a huge Victorian house with a bunch of cats and a bent back so that I can scare the neighborhood children. On second thought, that sounds extremely fun. Maybe I _should_ do that.

"Moira?" Stupid girl interrupting my thoughts again. When I look over at her, she looks concerned again. Oh, of course she does! I'm not some silly little kid that dies every time I stop talking. But then her expression changes a little, and she smiles—actually smiles after that look on her face! What's with this girl? "You really do like him, don't you?!" Oh, God, not this again!

"I do not!" I finally exclaim, but I don't think she believes me. I'm being honest (because I really, _really_ don't like him), and she, of course, takes it as lying. Of all things that I do, lying is not one of them. Sure, I'm fine with cursing and being mean to people my own age, but I don't lie and I don't disrespect my elders. I guess that's just the way my parents brought me up, though.

"You don't have to lie to me, Moira," she insists. "I won't tell anyone, I promise!"

I'm tempted to roll my eyes at that. Instead, I go for a nice, biting, sarcastic remark. "Oh, yes, you're right, Jessica! I am so head over heals for him that I don't know where to begin."

"Now you're just mocking me," she frowns.

"Of course I am! I really don't like him. If anything, it's the opposite, Jessica. He's self-centered, perverted, annoying, and smug! He smokes, and he lies, and I have a feeling that he cares far too much about how his hair looks!"

"I like his hair."

I groan at her response to that. "Yes, he has very nice hair," I admit, rolling my eyes (finally!), "but that doesn't mean he can get away with anything he wants."

"You seem to know an awful lot about him, considering you just met him," she speculates, causing me to groan again. She's nearly as infuriating as he is—maybe they _belong_ together… but it probably wouldn't end well, so screw that idea.

"His impression is merely difficult to forget," I reply, waving her statement away with a flick of my wrist.

"And now you can't forget about him!" she squeals.

If someone finds her dead in an hour or two, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do it. It was just an impulsive sort of thing, and I couldn't get the thought out of my head. I just thought I should apologize ahead of time, because I have a feeling that someone actually might find the corpse of Jessica Hennessey somewhere in the showers later this evening.

"I never said that I was thinking about him," I defend in frustration, clenching my jaw and pursing my lips together when not speaking. "You're the one that won't stop talking about him, so what does that say about _you_?"

She laughs—can you believe it! "I'm completely comfortable with any sort of attraction I might feel toward the boy. You, on the other hand, seem to have trouble confronting any feelings on the matter."

"What are you? My psychologist?" I snap.

She grins, about to speak, but I interrupt her again. I most definitely can't have her going on and on about how I have a crush on Charlie Dalton _again_. Somehow, she'd manage to weasel her way back to that and try to convince me to admit something that I know for certain is completely untrue.

"It doesn't matter. Let's go eat. It's almost time for the midday meal."

With a small sigh of failure, Jessica nods and makes her way toward the door, half eager to eat and meet more people but put off by the fact that I triumphed and refused to admit anything, whether true or untrue.

We're some of the first ones to reach the gigantic dining room, but people are filing in behind us as the clock chimes that it is indeed time for lunch. Feeling a bit out of place, we decide to stay together so as to avoid eating the meal alone, but we're still unsure of where to sit. Despite the fact that most of the girls are sitting at the same table together on the far side of the room, I don't like that idea. It just seems uncomfortable. Maybe I'll sit with Ricky, if I can find him.

Just as I begin to think that, my redheaded 'friend'—he's really only a half-friend because I can only stand him to a certain extent—comes into view with several other boys, three of which I recognize from earlier. With him are Neil Perry, Todd Anderson, Gerard Pitts, and another redhead with glasses that I think I might have passed in the hallways once or twice.

At the sight of them, I smile and grimace at the same time, which I'm sure makes an awkward face because Jessica notices it and says, "Are you all right, Moira?"

I nod. "Oh, I'm fine. Come on, I've found Ricky. We can eat with him."

"Who's Ricky?" she asks curiously, letting her eyes wander the room until I point him out to her among the four other boys. "That guy with the snooty look on his face and red hair?"

Her words make me laugh, but I assent nonetheless. "He's a friend of mine… sort of. Our mothers are really close, even though we're in Ireland most of our lives and the Camerons live in Connecticut. He's a bit snooty, though, like you said," I explain with a small, contented smile.

"We're going to sit with them?" Jessica asks apprehensively.

"I am," I respond, flashing her a grin. "You don't have to. You can sit with them," and I indicate the girls' table to the far left. Without waiting for a response of any sort from her, I move toward Ricky and the other boys with him as they make their way toward what I assume to be their regular table.

"Moira!" he cries when he sees me, and I grin back at him. "Want to sit with us?" He gestures toward the table we're standing right next to, and I agree quite eagerly.

As we're sitting down, myself between Ricky and Neil, Jessica rushes up after me and scoots in between myself and Neil, saying, "All right, Moira, you win. I'd rather sit with you than with all of them."

I laugh but welcome her wholeheartedly and introduce her. "Guys, this Jessica Hennessey," I say as she situates herself on the bench. And I point out the boys in turn and say their names. "Beside you is Neil Perry," and I nod toward the boy on her right, who smiles kindly at her. "On my left is Ricky—Richard Cameron," I say, inclining my head toward him. "Across from us is Todd Anderson, Gerard Pitts, and… actually, I don't believe I've met you," I continue, furrowing my brow and extending my hand toward the redhead with glasses across the table. "I'm Moira O'Brien."

"Oh, my name is Stephen Meeks," he says amiably. He seems nice enough but rather uncomfortable. They all seem a bit uncomfortable around girls, though… except maybe Ricky (probably because he knows me) and Neil—and Dalton, but he's not here right now, so I'm trying to ignore the fact that he even exists.

After that short, awkward moment, everything seems to continue on as if neither Jessica nor I are even there—for a little while, at least. The boys move into conversations about their summers, and Neil uncertainly asks, "Where're Knox and Charlie?" It's a question I desperately try to ignore but hear anyway.

It's Pitts that responds to his question, though, drawing me back into a conversation I so greatly wish not to heed. "I knocked on their door before leaving. Knox said they'd be out in a minute and to go on without them."

Thankfully, someone else intervenes before I actually pay attention to said conversation. "How do you know Cameron?" Todd inquires, glancing nervously my way with a little, almost naïve smile.

"Our mothers are great friends," I explain for the third time today (a bit frustrating, really). "We've known each other for years, spending most of our summers together here in America. They've only been to our home in Dublin once, I think."

Todd remains quiet after that, and so I have no hope of a distraction anymore until Ricky looks to me and says, "Where were you this summer? We didn't get to see you and your mother. We were in Vermont most of the time with my Aunt Genevieve."

I nod politely, not really caring one bit about his summer. It's rather amusing, actually, but I never did care for Rick all that much. He was just there and my only real connection to the Americas, a place I had always adored… until now. That's why he's more of a half-friend than an actual friend. And, damn, he sure gets on my nerves an awful lot.

Sometimes, I just wish he'd shut up, but, right now, I'm not sure whether I want him to shut up or to not stop talking as I notice Dalton and Knox enter the hall and move toward us at this table. I do not want to talk to _him_, so I just focus completely on Ricky and the chat formed between the two of us.

"Well," I say, answering his original question, "we were in Wales for most of the summer. That was where…"

When my voice trails away, Ricky inquires, "Moira, is everything all right?"

I nod slowly, but I'm definitely lying. I'm sure that Rick has already heard about the death of my father over the summer. We went to Wales because he loves the kingdom and that was where he wanted to die. It was skin cancer that finally got to him, but it took a long time. He lived nearly a year longer than our doctor had predicted, so that was more time to spend with him, but I hate that idea at the same time because I dislike the fact that it merely prolonged his suffering. He left us at the end of July, and my mother and I were happy that he was able to finally go, even if we wanted him to stay so much.

Mostly, I just hated to see him in so much pain. A couple months before he… _you know_, he was perfectly fine and normal and seemingly healthy, but, in that last week, he was a completely different person. Sometimes, I wish that I hadn't been there that last month. My memory of him will always be slightly skewed because of it. If only I could have been ignorant of the suffering and the change in who he was… but that obviously wasn't to be. Ah, ignorance really is bliss, no matter what people tell you.

"Never mind," I finally heave, glancing down at the empty plate in front of me. Almost franticly, I begin to dish up my meal, even though I've lost most of my appetite. "Anyway, how is Genevieve? It's been a couple years since I've seen her."

Rick seems satisfied with my response and continues with a long story of how his aunt's joints are getting worse and that she had been complaining about her ankle. A really boring story, so I'm barely listening, but I nod and smile and act like I actually care just to please him. I should at least try to make him happy, considering he's really the only person I know for certain I can trust here—well, with some things, because I know there are certain subjects that ought not be brought up around Richard Cameron, even if he's feeling a bit rebellious on the day because that'll hardly make any difference in his hesitancy toward non-conformist things.

Meanwhile, beyond what he says, I catch little bits of the conversations around me. It's rather jumbled and confusing, but I can get a general gist of what's going on.

Apparently, Pitts and Meeks (I think that's what the others call them—not by their first names, anyway, which is a tad strange but I guess I should do the same) are talking about some science or technology things that I don't understand at all.

Neil, Knox, and Dalton are all talking about that study group that Dalton mentioned to me earlier as Todd listens carefully. I can hear their conversation the most. That may just be because the world is mean to me and wants me to think about Dalton and how damn annoying he is… or else it's just karma. I don't know what horrible thing I've done to deserve this, though. Maybe I should invest in helping heal people's souls for the afterlife or something so that the gods love me.

"So, Charlie," comes Neil's voice, pushing its way into my head so that I have to listen to what he's saying, "are you coming to the study group or not?"

"I suppose I should make sure I remember my Latin," he shrugs in response.

"What about how wonderful this year is going to be and meeting new people?" mocks Knox (wow, that rhymes—greatly amusing!).

"I'm content with the people I've met so far," he replies, and I can hear the smirk in his voice without needing to even glance his way. Hmm, I wonder how many other girls he ran into on his way back to his own dormitory. A bit smutty of him, isn't it? And, yet, why am I not surprised? Not even in the least?

"What about you, Knox?" continues Neil, turning to the other boy.

"I can't. I have a date." The sound of his voice is so absentminded. My guess would be that he's currently off in his own little world with some girl with which he's completely in love. He's the sweet one out of the group—well, from what I can tell, anyways—and he ends up being the one that's taken already. I'm happy for him. He seems nice enough to actually deserve it.

"Way to go, Knoxious!" exclaims Dalton, eagerly patting his friend on the back with a large grin upon his face (again, I can tell without looking).

Lightheartedly, Knox responds, coming out of his almost comatose dream-state, "Before you ask, I still haven't seen her naked yet."

"The 'yet' there at the end of that sentence is quite reassuring," Dalton returns.

"Where are you taking her?" asks Neil happily.

"We're going to a movie at the theater," he replies almost uncertainly. "I don't know what movie, though, because I'm letting her decide."

"Very chivalrous," Neil laughs.

At this point, I force myself to return to Ricky and whatever the hell it is he's talking about now. Seems he's going on about his father's company. You see, his father is a businessman. Nothing really interesting about that, but Rick has always enjoyed the thought of following in his father's footsteps. I don't know why, because it sounds more boring than a… well, actually, I don't really do things I find boring, so I'm not sure what I could possibly put there. Being a businessman would probably be more boring than listening to Ricky go on about being a businessman, though.

And so I quite keenly return to my own little dreamscape of a world. My mind easily wanders—I observe this quite frequently. In fact, it does it so much that it makes me wonder if other people's minds wander as much as mine does. Sometimes I think about stuff like that. I just speculate about whether other people really feel the same things as I do and experience the same sort of actions. Sure, I read books about a million different things, and that proves some things but it doesn't at the same time. Maybe I'm just hard to please or something so that anything anyone tries to tell me is subject to my doubts. Or maybe I'm crazy—but no madman ever thinks he's mad, after all, so it couldn't possibly be that. Unless me thinking I'm not crazy but that I could be crazy is all part of the craziness. Oh, and, if I keep thinking like this, my head will start to hurt and I'll have to yell at _other_ people to shut up because my own conscience wouldn't shut up. Gee, that makes so much sense… or not.

"Moira?"

"Hmm?" I say, immediately focusing on Ricky, who was the one speaking to me. "What's up?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Rick," I easily apologize, only half meaning it. "I completely spaced out. What did you say again?"

"I invited you to our study group tomorrow night. Want to come?"

Stupid Ricky. Making me think about Dalton does not make me happy, and every time someone mentions that damned study group, my mind wanders back to that godforsaken boy. I steal a look to my right, and, beyond Jessica and Neil and Todd and Knox, there he is, sitting and laughing with those boys. With false enthusiasm, I return to Rick and say, "Sure, we'll come."

"We?" he asks uncertainly.

Still smiling, I elbow Jessica in the side to catch her attention, and she quietly shouts, "Hey!" at me before actually putting in something worth listening to. "Oh, um, yeah, sure, we will." Hah, so she was listening to our conversation (or half-listening)! I suspected as much.

"Great," smiles Rick. "It'll be in our common room after dinner tomorrow night."

"We'll be there," I promise.

"What do we do for the rest of today?" questions Jessica curiously while looking down at her empty plate. Since lunch is over, she seems to be ready for what comes next. We already know that the classes don't start until tomorrow, so it can't be that, but I'm sure the administration wouldn't allow us to sit around and do nothing.

"We're assigned our extracurricular activities in half an hour," he explains.

And, thus, half an hour later, here I am, standing in the hallway with Jessica and a bunch of boys I don't know. We wait and we wait and we wait as many other students are called up into Mr. Nolan's office, until, finally, I hear, "Hennessey, Nesbit, O'Brien, Anderson, Hopkins!" So Jessica, Todd, and I all trudge up the staircase with another boy and another girl, neither of which I've seen before, and enter the principal's office.

Once with Mr. Nolan, he exchanges some Smalltalk with Hopkins and tries to with Todd (but fails miserably) before beginning what I can only assume to be the speech he gives every one of his new students: something about how he assigns all extracurricular activities based on merit and desire and how we should all be thankful for these or something like that. Apparently he expects us to take these all as seriously as classes because we get demerits if we don't attend them. Well, this is stupid.

Todd's and Hopkins's are probably the same as they were last year, but the girls (me, Jessica, and the girl named Nesbit) all have a sort of rollover from our previous schools. "Miss Hennessey," he says, looking to Jessica, "based upon your chosen activities at your last school: softball, debate club, soccer."

"Thank you," she nods.

"Miss Nesbit: school newspaper, forensics, chemistry club, mathematics club, school annual, Honor Council." Wow, she's taking a lot of extracurricular—and it's all the academic stuff. Hmm, maybe she actually likes school. Actually, to tell the truth, I'm taking just as many as Nesbit is, so I shouldn't be complaining.

"Yes, sir," the small girl said, bobbing her head of beautiful black hair up and down.

Now to me. "And for you, Miss O'Brien: soccer, softball, school newspaper, school annual, debate club, art club. So that you understand, Miss O'Brien," continues Nolan, looking me straight in the face with that stupid stern look of his, "our art club is not as liberal as the one you went to in Ireland. I do, however, hope you enjoy it just as much as your previous one. Now, all of you, dismissed."

The five of us leave his office, and Hopkins and Nesbit leave me with Jessica and Todd. For a while we walk in silence, and I ponder what that stupid guy—er, Mr. Nolan, I mean—just said to me. What could he mean by the fact that it wasn't as 'liberal' as what I'm used to? Will they not allow pictures of naked people or something like that? Seriously, I don't know what else he could really mean by that. I guess I'll just find out when I actually go to one of the meetings.

Once the three of us are away from the long line of students and to where we can speak more freely, Neil and Dalton approach us. Neil's face has a small, indecisive smile on it, as if he knows he should be smiling but he's still unhappy about something. Dalton, however, has that stupid smirk on his face again. Like that's a surprise, though.

"What'd you get?" Neil asks the three of us when we're all standing together in the middle of the courtyard.

"Debate, softball, and soccer," answers Jessica with a smile. She obviously likes both of them… and also probably the fact that she didn't receive very many extracurricular activities.

"There's softball?" asks Dalton.

Todd answers, "They just put it in for the girls."

"Yeah, apparently, we're not strong enough or don't have enough endurance for soccer and rowing," I snort.

"What about you, Moira?" Neil inquires.

I shrug. "Same as at my other school."

Dalton rolls his eyes at me. "We didn't go to your other school, now did we, Irish? If we're to know what you got, you'll have to tell us."

"Then, maybe _you_ won't know," I snap. "Now, if you excuse me, Dalton, I am going to start ignoring you at the end of my next sentence. Do not expect me to talk to you or even look at you again for at least twelve hours, because I really don't want to do either of those all that much." He seems a bit taken aback by my statement, so I take that opportunity to brush past him and continue walking.

"Where are you going?" Neil calls after me.

Without turning back, I shout, "My dormitory. If anybody wants me for anything—although, not _quite_ anything—that's where I'll be." When I reach the opposite end of the courtyard, I spin around and finish with, "By the way, 'anybody' does not include people that call themselves by the name Nuwanda. Have a lovely evening. I'll see you at dinner."

With my own little smirk—but not a devious one or a smug one, mind you—I make my way toward my room, pondering what Nolan could have possibly meant in his previous statement about the art club and wishing that I don't have to eat to survive because I really don't want to go eat with everyone again.

* * *

_Well, I know this one wasn't nearly as funny as the first one, but Moira has a different type of humor than Charlie, even if the two different types sort of overlap at certain points. This chapter was more to get to know Moira than anything else, and the whole art club thing will come to play later on in the story._

_Moira's character is mostly based off of myself, so be warned. The little bit about her father dying is also from me--only, for me, it was my grandfather in California dying of skin cancer. Also, I'm in art club, and I absolutely love it. Anyway, a lot of little things like that come from me (just so that you know, because it really doesn't matter that much)._

_Oh, and, if anyone has any ideas for other possible extracurricular activities that were not mentioned during that extra scene, please tell me about them. I already wrote down all the ones from the scene, so no worries about that._

_Thank you so much for reading! I'd love a review or two._

_Anatui_


	3. Letdown

_Short disclaimer: Well, there's nothing new in the fact that I still don't own DPS, so let's move on and not address the issue again. It should also be stated that I do not own the poem 'There is a Lady Sweet and Kind' by Thomas Ford. Obviously, Thomas Ford owns it, though I think he's dead so he probably doesn't anymore... but his spirit (or something like that) might._

* * *

_Chapter 3 – Letdown._ (Charlie's POV) 

Classes are boring. Utterly boring. There's no way to describe it in any other way. I could use a bunch of really big words to explain, but it all boils down to 'boring'. It's not really any more boring that usual, but I suppose that, while waiting for my favorite class, it's difficult not to compare the classes and teachers to Mr. Keating and his way of teaching.

I suppose we're extremely lucky that the Captain is still here and not fired. During the last semester of the previous school year, he did tone down his teachings a bit. He's still the same man with the same philosophy, but he's been more careful, especially around other teachers—well, not Mr. McAllister, but the two actually became friends and it shows during McAllister's lessons in Latin (not quite such a boring class anymore).

This is the letdown we've all been tolerating, though. There are changes here at Welton. But despite the acceptance of girls and the slightly more liberal teachings, it's still the same old, boring school with all the same boring schoolwork and the same boring teachers. We've all been a bit caught up in the excitement of what's new and different that we forgot about what's still the same. And it's definitely a letdown—definitely.

With half the classes taken care of for one day, we make our way to lunch. The adrenaline's already wearing off, and I easily groan as I sit down at our regular table next to Neil. God, I want this day to be over already! But then I remind myself that I still have three classes after this and that includes English class, which is the only class I'm actually looking forward to.

Irish and her friend settle down into the seats across from me, talking about one of our assignments from the last class. Jessica sends me a small smile when Irish isn't looking, but I'm not really paying attention to her. She's just like every other girl I know. Moira, however, doesn't seem to notice I even exist. Figures. She's still ignoring me, but the twelve hours aren't up, so I'm not all that surprised by her actions.

And that's just a bit frustrating. She's still ignoring me instead of mocking me. To tell the truth, I think I prefer for her to mock me. Sure, it'd be easier if she'd just stop being so determined, but who said anything about wanting life to be easy? Besides, life never was and never will be easy, no matter how much a person might wish and hope for it to be.

There's just something about the fire in her eyes when she's angry that I really like. Before she's angry, they sparkle and remain a calm blue. However, when she's angry or frustrated, they get stormy—I swear it's like there's actually lightning and thunder in her eyes. Can't really explain it as anything but entrancing. But now, if she won't even look at me, I guess her eyes will stay that same boring blue. What a shame, really.

And then a thought comes to mind, and I take up a spoonful of my peas and flick them straight at her. Hah, that should teach her to pay more attention to me… as long as she doesn't pay _too_ much attention to me. I'm not quite in the mood to get murdered right now, but I guess I'll just have to see.

She stops talking but doesn't turn to look at me. The knuckles of her hand holding the fork turn white, but her other fingers move gracefully up to her face to wipe away any of the juices that might remain. But, after taking another deep breath, she just carries on with her conversation as if nothing happened. Now that's just mean!

I guess she's set on ignoring me until the twelve hours are up—maybe longer if she really dislikes me at the time—and I guess I can handle that. It's not like talking to her is essential for my wellbeing. I hadn't even met her before yesterday morning, so why should talking to her be so important? I guess it's just a bit of a letdown, too. After seeing her so much yesterday, getting to know her a little bit, and learning how exactly to rile her up, it just seems like she's part of my normal, regular world already. She just seems to fit, to belong. It doesn't help that she already knows Cameron and is sitting with us because of that.

And, so, forty-five minutes later, here we all are in Mr. Keating's classroom, waiting for our teacher to come out of his office in the back. Everyone in here, except for the three girls in our grade, seems to be excited, all hoping this year will be as enlightening and fun as it was last year. Hopefully, Mr. Nolan hasn't gotten to Captain to make him follow all the stupid, set curriculum.

When the bell rings, out comes Mr. Keating with that same smile on his face. "Welcome back, boys," he says as he hesitates at his desk, allowing his gaze to travel across the room from person to person, and then continues toward the door, "and welcome for the first time, young ladies. Oh, you might want to bring all your things."

Not a minute after he is out the door, we all jump up to follow, taking our books and everything else, too, along with us. Typical Captain would take us out of the classroom on the first day again, and I'm definitely not complaining as we pursue him through the large doors and out into the open air.

As we walk, he begins the lesson. "This semester, we will be focusing more on the modern works. While last year you boys learned the classics and history of poetry, we will spend this time on poetry and short stories developed within the past one hundred years. You will also be writing more this year. Some of these will be fixed poems like haikus or limericks, but most will be open and free of all limitations like rhyme schemes or the need for rhythm."

He leads us across the grass and to the edge of the lake, where he leans against a tree and we all sit down in a circle (as he directed) on the ground around him. It's a bit uncomfortable, but I can manage to survive without a cushion under my ass all the time. It's not like I complain all the time, anyway. I doubt anybody (other than Neil and Knox) would even pay attention to my complaints, so why make any? Unless it's just for fun—it is really fun to complain just to annoy people… or is that something only I do?

"Ladies and gentlemen," continues the Captain, "today we're going to play a game. I know this is quite a surprise, especially for you ladies, but this is to help us get back into the spirit of writing. Not everyone here spent their summer time with their nose in a copy of Lord Byron. This is also for me to get to know my three new students.

"Now, this game is simple. I'm sure that several of you have played it around a campfire. However, we lack a campfire at this moment, so we'll just have to make do without it. The first person will begin with a sentence, and then it will move to their left. I want you to just say the first thing that comes to mind; don't think about it! It may be a bit strange, a bit absurd, but that's all right. It's not going to kill you." He looked straight at the third new student in our grade, a girl with shoulder-length, jet-black hair and wan skin, and said, "Young miss, will you please begin?"

She supplied her name, "Nesbit," and nodded slowly. After mumbling for a short moment, she plucks up enough courage to say her random thought to start the story. "As the wind blew through the broken windowpane of the decrepit house, a babe cried alone in the night, scared and afraid." Said quite hesitantly.

Strange. I've never spoken to Nesbit, but she seems to be a bit strange—in a different way from Irish, though. She's obviously shy like Todd, but I think I'd be afraid of her if I actually knew her. She seems a little… er, not sane. I doubt that she's a fan of romance poetry… maybe Poe, though.

The boy on her left seems a bit frightened, but says something anyway. "Um, the parents of the baby had, uh, left it there… on accident?"

Meeks looks up from his spot by the boy and says uncertainly, "The stairs of the house creaked when an old man made his way down from his bedroom on the second floor."

Beside him, Pitts hesitated, glancing around at the other people in the circle.

Mr. Keating observed this and said, "Come on, Pitts, ignore them. Think about the story. Say the first thing."

"Oh, he found the child and, uh, picked it up to take care of it until the parents came back to get it."

"But what he didn't know was that, three miles away, the baby's parents had just realized they had left their child behind and, as they turned around their vehicle, crashed into a large tree and died." That's Irish. I'm not surprised at her twist in the story. Yes, let's kill of the parents to make the child horribly miserable.

Jessica, next to her, excitedly says, "Oh, and so the old man takes care of the baby and he grows to love it as his own, even though he's really old!"

By the time the story gets to me and nearly all the way back to Nesbit, the adoptive old man died and the kid, which was apparently made a girl at some point I must have missed, is now fifteen years old and living in the house on her own. So I say exactly what first comes to mind like the Captain said we should. "You see, at this point she's very lonely, so she begins to spend a lot of time with a boy from her school…" I say, allowing my voice to trail away suggestively.

Exactly what I was hoping for. However, the overall reaction was not exactly what I was hoping for, I note as Irish grabs a short, fat piece of bark off the ground and throws it at me. I'm barely able to dodge it, but, once I do, I glare back at her. She looks furious, and that look in her eyes is back, which just makes my face soften and a smile grace my lips. Hmm, are the twelve hours over already? Or is that just wishful thinking?

I'm expecting her to speak, to say how disgustingly perverted I am or something of the like, but she doesn't say anything, and the story continues awkwardly as Mr. Keating glances warily between myself and Moira. I just send him a rather guilty smile when he looks my way, and I can see that he tries not to laugh.

I'm not going to lie about paying attention to the story after that. I don't really, until it's almost my turn again and I need to know what's going on so I don't look completely stupid. But, then, after that, I just drift away from the story again to study the people around me.

It's sort of funny to think that Cameron sits there and cleans his fingernails. Does anyone else find that a bit odd or awkward or amusing in the least? Or maybe just a little bit girly of him? But it is Cameron, so I'm not all that surprised. However, something else he's doing catches my eye at that point as he steals a glance over to his left. Following his gaze, I see Moira's sitting there and scowling (probably still thinking about what I had previously insinuated), but he's looking a bit more closely at that. Girls have to wear skirts, you see, and hers doesn't appear to be situated very well so that it completely blocks wandering eyes from seeing a little too much for comfort. That's disgusting. I guess I'm mostly surprised that Cameron actually likes girls, though. Hmm, that's a bit of a letdown. Maybe he likes both. That's almost as amusing.

Just when the story is getting interesting—well, enough for me to actually pay attention to it—and the girl has lost the house and is living on the streets, Mr. Keating interrupts because class is almost over. "One last thing," he promises with a smile. "Mr. Overstreet, could you please open your book to page fifty-two and read the poem there?"

Knox, all the way across the circle from me, opens the book to the correct page and reads the title, "'There is a Lady Sweet and Kind' by Thomas Ford?"

"Yes."

And so he reads:

"_There is a lady sweet and kind,  
__Was never a face so pleased my mind;  
__I did but see her passing by,  
__And yet I'll love her till I die._

"_Her gesture, motion, and her smiles,  
__Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles,  
__Beguiles my heart, I know not why,  
__And yet I'll love her till I die._

"_Cupid is winged and he doth range,  
__Her country, so, my love doth change:  
__But change she earth, or change she sky,  
__Yet I will love her till I die._"

As we hear the bell ring in the distance, he continues half-hurriedly, "Very nice, Mr. Overstreet. Now, despite the fact that that poem fits Knox very well, that is one of my own favorite poems. Favorite poems remind us of things we enjoy or want to achieve or even sometimes things we greatly dislike. They speak to us in ways that much else can't, and they move us. This one actually reminds me of my wife in England.

"As your first assignment for this semester, you will find your own favorite poem and read it aloud to the class on Monday. Dismissed." He stands up and begins to walk back toward the school, and the rest of us follow suit.

I guess this is an interesting assignment. I do, indeed, have a favorite poem, but I have a feeling certain people here (you guess who because I think it's too obvious to say) wouldn't like it very much. Oh well. Irish'll get over it.

Only a short distance away, though, Captain turns back and calls out, "Oh, and, no, Mr. Dalton, the poem you currently have in mind is not appropriate for the classroom. I'm afraid you'll have to find a replacement for it," and continues on his way happily.

Damn. But I grin sheepishly and yet amusedly. How does he do that anyway? It's like some strange sixth sense that he understands us all and can predict what we'll feel or say or do. It's weird, and yet I almost envy him for that. I'm not so good at understanding people and their feelings.

As I stand there for a moment, I watch everyone else walking back toward the school before stooping down and picking up the bark that Moira had thrown at me earlier. I examine it curiously, laugh, and toss it aside as I notice that she's idling beside Jessica, who is trying to pull all her books together again. I can hear her say, "This is why I use a bag instead of carrying them all in my arms."

"I know, I know," responds Jessica snappishly as she finally stands up with all her books in her arms, teetering dangerously.

They begin to walk toward the school, and, grinning, I sidle up beside them and place my arm around Irish's shoulders playfully. "Are my twelve hours over now?" I ask casually, smirking.

She easily shrugs off my arm but responds, "No, but I give up trying to ignore you when you refuse to leave me alone. I'll just settle for sarcasm and rudeness instead."

"All the more reason for me to stay," I laugh, putting my arm up on her shoulders again. "I don't know where you'd get the idea that sarcasm would push me away. I really don't know enough sarcastic people. It's a bit refreshing."

"You really get a kick out of annoying me, don't you?" she snaps, looking over to glare at me as Jessica giggles to her left. At that, she turns on her new friend and groans, "Jess, shut up!"

"I really do," I murmur into her ear and pull back just before she looks at me again.

God, the look in her eyes is so intense! I love that so much. I really don't know how I survived before I saw her eyes. I don't know how fire can appear in blue eyes, but her anger must be so much that it's like they're actually burning. I wonder what her eyes are like in other situations. If she cries? If she's giddy? …If she's aroused?

My thoughts are interrupted by the look on her face, her brow furrowed. "What are you looking at, Dalton?" she asks before looking ahead resolutely. That's when I realize she hasn't pushed me away again and I grin in triumph, until she stomps on my foot, elbows me in the side painfully, and she and Jessica leave me behind as I double over in anguish. Funny, they act as if nothing happened. But I won't be thwarted that easily, and, yet, for some reason, I don't pursue her further. Wonder why that is.

Much later, after classes are finished for the day, we all make our way to dinner, sighing thankfully as we allow ourselves to snuggle into our seats quite gratefully. I've definitely been waiting for this all day. Classes are over—yet they've just actually begun—and now I just want to relax. I really don't know how I'll survive by the end of the school year if I continue like this. I'm happy to survive one day but there are still about two hundred left. I'm so totally screwed.

"Do you guys know what poems you'll be reading for English class?" asks Neil eagerly. Funny, he seems happy and excited about classes and everything else, too. What a weird guy.

We all generally agree that we have no idea, but we do have three whole days between today and Monday so that's plenty of time to figure out what we'll read. I'm sure most students in our class never before thought of picking favorite poems. To tell the truth, neither did I most of the time, but, for some reason, I've just always liked that one poem. Regrettably, I can't read that. What a letdown.

"What poem were you going to use?" inquires Knox curiously. All I do is smirk, and he says, "Never mind. I'm pretty sure I don't want to know."

Laughing, I respond, "You probably don't."

A short moment after the evening prayer, Jessica arrives and sits down between Knox and Neil with a book in her hands. I have to say that I'm a bit startled at first. Until now, I wouldn't have been able to imagine her with a book other than one for school, but, in her hands, is a book definitely not assigned to us for any class. As I read the cover, though, I discover that it is a poetry book, one she's probably using for English to discover her favorite poem. Her eyes grow big at one of the poems. Hmm, I wonder what it's about.

"What poem are you reading?" asks Knox curiously as he begins to place some cooked snow peas on his plate. "Is it good?"

She glances up at him first and then over at me. I cock an eyebrow at her, commanding her to speak. She says as a small smile graces her face, "I like it. It's 'Wondrous Moment' by Alexander Pushkin."

I raise both eyebrows at this and all hints of a smile leave my face. Did Irish tell her about that? I wouldn't be surprised if she did. I also wouldn't be surprised if that isn't her book at all. She's probably never touched a book without being told to do so by a teacher. Of course, she could always be using it for English, I remind myself, and just found the poem. She seemed pretty surprised by the words, after all.

"That's not your book, is it?" I guess as my smirk returns.

"It's Moira's," she replies. "She lent it to me for English. I don't read much poetry, but she has lots of books, so she's letting me look through them to decide which one I like the most. She already has a favorite, actually, so she doesn't have to look for one."

I laugh quietly and say, "I thought so."

"Where is Moira anyway?" asks Cameron curiously, looking up from his plate of disgusting-looking cooked greens toward Jessica.

"Library," she answers before returning to the poetry book. "She should be here soon unless she can't find the book she's searching for."

"What's she looking for?" he pursues.

"I'm not sure. Something about 'course' or 'horse' mythology, I think she said."

"Norse mythology?" Neil suggests.

"Yeah!" she exclaims, glancing up again. "That's what it was. What is that, anyway?"

"It's the religion of the ancient Vikings," supplies Meeks.

"Or the Scandinavians," adds Pitts, "or the Norse. They're people from Scandinavia, which is in northern Europe. It's an area not a country around where Norway is. That's where Norse comes from."

"Oh," she says, but it appears as if she doesn't quite understand. I'm not surprised in the least by that.

"Why does she need to look that up?" I ask, furrowing my brow.

"I don't know. She was saying something about some guy named Fryer or something like that."

"Freyr?" proposes Knox. "Or he's sometimes known as just Frey."

"God of fertility," I add suggestively.

"That was it! How do you guys know all this?"

"We looked it up last semester," said Meeks. "Well, we knew some of it from before then, but we read a poem that mentioned several of the Norse gods, so we wanted to know more about it."

"Why does she want to know about the god of _fertility_?" I ask, half curious and half disbelieving. It doesn't really seem like her to want to know about something like that. Or maybe we've discovered a new side of her. Heh, I doubt that. There must be some reason that's more logical than that.

"How would I know that?" says Jessica. "I wasn't really listening to what she was saying."

"But fertility," I insist. "She thinking about getting pregnant?"

"I thought language was invented to _woo_ women, Charlie, not to insult them," laughs Pitts.

"I'm not insulting her."

"Oh, of course you aren't," a sarcastic voice says from behind me, one I recognize quite easily, especially with that accent of hers.

I turn around, grinning, showing off my white teeth, and say to her, "Ah, Irish. There you are. So, tell us, why were you looking up the god of _fertility_?"

"That's none of your damn business, Dalton. Now scoot your arse over so I can sit down," she snaps impatiently.

"Miss O'Brien, demerits!" calls out Dr. Hager as he passes by the table, glaring at all of us in turn.

She just rolls her eyes after he's passed, apparently too frustrated with me to care about demerits at the moment. After I oblige to her 'request'—more like a command, but we'll overlook that for now—she slips down onto the bench and sets down a small book on Norse mythology and culture.

"I'm surprised you actually want to sit by me," I say, smirking.

"I don't, so don't let it inflate your ego," she snaps back. "If you hadn't realized, the only open seat was where you're sitting now, on the edge by you and no one else. Not wanting to sit by _only_ you, I oh-so-easily convinced you to move so that I could sit by someone else, too."

"Definitely deflates it, though," I return, scowling at her.

"Good. You definitely need the deflation," she says as she opens the book again.

"Are either of you girls going to eat?" I retort, going back to my nearly untouched food. "And, if not, why are you even here?"

"I'm going to eat," Jessica says, marking her place in the poetry book and setting it on her lap so that she could eat without causing it harm.

Irish, on the other hand, seems to contemplate this before responding to my comment. "I was going to eat," she speaks pensively, not glancing up from the library book, "but, now that you insist, I feel like I should sit here and not eat just to spite you."

Despite the harshness previously in my tone, I laugh and say, "Have fun starving then."

"Skipping one meal is not going to kill me, Dalton."

God, she just has to be so stubborn, doesn't she? Sure, I can be stubborn, too, but not like her. It's not good for her not to eat, even if she's just missing one meal. And yet I'm still laughing and saying, "Maybe not, Irish, but your pride's going to kill you instead."

No matter how much we act like we hate each other (well, I act like I hate her, but she probably really does hate me), we have a lot in common. I'm sure she'd disagree with that, but that would probably be because I'm the one that said it… or just because it involves me. It's kind of funny, actually, if you think about it. I really do think she actually hates me, though. Disappointing, but not at all unappealing. Besides, it's worth it—just to see that storm in her eyes.

"Why are you so smiley?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at me as she looks up from her book. What a surprise. Maybe she said something and I didn't respond and confused her. Or else she felt the aura change around me. On second thought, the first one fits better… and sounds like something that might happen in a non-fantastical, normal world.

"Why not?" I question in return, feeling my lips curl up into a smirk.

She scowls at me. She really hates when I smirk, and I absolutely love it. I love how all I have to do is smirk and she's infuriated. Before now, I didn't know it was possible to anger someone with just a few muscle movements. I wonder if it works on anyone else, though. Doubt it. She seems unique in almost every way, so why not this one, too?

Apparently, I feel daring at the moment because I slip my left hand under the table and on her knee—normally not a very daring move, but, considering it's Irish, I think it is. I'll probably be lucky if she doesn't just smite me right here and right now. In fact, considering, as time passes, I'm still alive, my luck is pretty good right now—God must love me, though I don't know why He would. Deftly, I massage her knee and lower thigh as she stiffens beside me. I can feel her every muscle tense under my touch, and I grin mischievously.

"You're happy about something," she states bluntly and bitterly.

"Yes, I am, actually," as I move my right hand toward my drink and pull my glass up to my lips to take a sip.

"And," she continues as if I hadn't spoken at all, "it's not from self-gratification because I would have noticed that, even if you were trying to hide it under the table."

I choke on my beverage and set down my cup, entering a coughing fit. Did she just say what I think she said? Or was that just in my head? My eyes are watering when I recover and look over at her. All right, I'm pretty sure it wasn't just in my head because all the others seem a bit awkward as well and no one's saying a thing… or maybe that's just how it is when Irish and I argue.

"What did you say?" I cough out blearily, blinking my eyes constantly.

"So what are you so happy about?" she asks, looking at me quite seriously. Is she going to act like she didn't just say what I think she said? Eh, knowing her (well, I really don't know her that well, but we'll ignore that fact), she probably is.

"Um, I'm not feeling that happy at the moment," I say uneasily. "Mostly, I'm feeling a bit uncomfortable right now."

"Hmm, why's that?" Damn, she sounds so innocent, too. How can she put up that façade and pretend she didn't say that? I don't understand her, and I'm pretty sure I never will. No matter what might happen, she will always be a mystery to me.

"That, uh, doesn't matter," I respond, looking down at my food, but I'm not hungry anymore. I don't know how I could eat after that. I guess I'm feeling a bit self-conscious—strange, I know—but she's watching me and she's just so damn weird.

And, beside me, she grins—_grins_, can you believe it?!—leans into my ear, and whispers into it dangerously. "Just think, Dalton," she says, taking my hand under the table (oops, almost forgot that was still there, though I'm not sure how I could have done so) and moving it slowly underneath her skirt and halfway up to her inner thigh, "this is the closest you'll ever get." Then, she pushes it away roughly and begins to get out of her seat, still saying in a hushed voice, "If you ever think that you can touch me again, you won't be able to feel anything during self-gratification… or sex, for that matter. I'm not that easy, and I never will be." Without another word, she picks up her book on Norse mythology and leaves the table, and I just have to watch as she leaves.

She really is something, isn't she? She walks so purposefully with her head held high and her steps firm and strong. Not a single thing seems to matter in her world as long as she can still walk like that. So strong, so proud, so resolute. She's daring and she knows it, too. Not necessarily a good thing for me, but I can deal with it as it comes.

I turn back to the table, still thinking, until I notice all the others are staring at me. Were they staring at me while I was staring at her? Eh, probably—not that it matters. "Yeah?" I ask, raising my eyebrows questioningly. "Anything I can help you all with?"

"Oh my God," said Jessica, her eyes wide.

I eye her curiously, but I really think she's insane. What is she going to say now? I roll my eyes after a short moment and say, "No, sorry, but I can't supply you with your own personal god."

That earned a small laugh from Neil, but the others still seem to be acting a bit weird. Really, I don't blame them, but I can't let them know that. I don't know why. I guess, pride. Sadly, we're all victims to pride—some of us more than others, though.

"What was that?" asks Knox after another awkward silence.

"What was what?" I reply. All right, I definitely know what he's talking about, but why should I let him know that? Well, other than the fact that he's my best friend, right? Exactly. Stupid pride, right? Exactly.

This time Neil speaks—and _smirks_! Oh no, what's he plotting this time? It's never good when _Neil_ smirks. He doesn't do it often, and it usually means something either devious or conniving—and those mean about the same thing, so it could easily be both. "You _like_ her, don't you?" he says. Wait, did he just say that?

I furrow my brow in confusion at his words and reply, "What? Where did you get that idea? Come on, Neil, you know how I am with girls. I don't _like_ girls. All right, I like _girls_, but I never like a _specific_ girl. You know that."

How could he possibly think that? How could anyone think that I could actually have _feelings_ for a girl? Come on! I know I'll probably have to marry one some day—hopefully not the one my parents want me to marry, because I can never trust their opinion of what's good for me—but I could never actually care for one or eventually love one. Unless I'm related to her, but I really don't have any female relatives around my age so that plan's screwed. But that's not even the kind of 'care' that we're talking about here! And that's never going to happen. Never.

"Defensive," observes Knox, smiling in that same way, which is rare for him, too, so he must have something up his sleeve as well. "It must be true."

"No," I state firmly in disbelief. "No. I don't. I don't _like_ her."

"You do," Pitts says, barely able to believe it.

Meeks just nods in acquiescence.

Oh, God, not them, too! Damn you, God! And I thought you actually liked me! I guess I'm still paying for that stunt last year, aren't I? But why does it have to be over a girl? Please don't make me have feelings for _her_. She's going to kill me even if I don't, so don't make me have them! Either way, I'm screwed—and not even in the good way. Why do you have to be so cruel to me? Why do you have to give me such horrible letdowns all the time? Why does God hate me so much? Even my phone call stunt couldn't have been bad enough to deserve this!

* * *

_Well, thanks much for reading this chapter. I'd love a review!_

_Anatui_


	4. There You Are

_Chapter 4 – There You Are._ (Moira's POV)

Satisfied, that's a lovely way to put it. I am quite satisfied. By that word, I don't mean the way that Dalton would like to be satisfied, but the way that a person feels when they've done something they're proud of. I'm proud of the fact that I so just definitely… well, to tell the truth, I don't really know how to describe what I did. All I did was… er, I guess I could say, tempt him and then toss him aside. Sort of mean, but it's Charlie Dalton—somebody needs to be mean to him, so why not me?

But that dearly beloved satisfaction drifts away whenever I realize that I have to see him again tonight and I'll probably ruin my splendid exit. I'm really quite fond of my exit and now I'll ruin it—not purposefully, of course, but it'll still happen.

Stupid Ricky had to go and invite me to their stupid study group so I had to say yes. All right, I didn't have to, but it was out of politeness… and also because of the fact that I'm a prideful, little girl with big ambitions and a sarcastic sense of humor—mostly the prideful part, though.

I guess I'll just wait for Jessica to come back before I start to get ready. I really don't know what books to bring and I doubt she'll be logical enough to ask what we'll be studying—she probably even forgot about the study group altogether, knowing her (not that I really do)—so I guess I can take it all. Damn, that'd be heavy, though. Well, I guess I'll take my stuff for every class that has something due tomorrow, because that's only two classes and so much less heavy.

I wait five minutes before Jessica returns, looking about as gleeful as a… um, gleeful Jessica Hennessey. She's always happy, so, generally, it's a bit difficult to tell when she's _actually_ happy. But this… this is different. She looks positively ecstatic in a way that is almost inhuman. That's really a bit creepy.

"What's up?" I ask curiously. "What's happened to make you so happy? Did somebody ask you out on a date or something?"

She laughs, and it sounds like bells tinkling. God, she'll drive me crazy. Why does her laugh have to sound like that? I'm sure all the boys love it, though. "No, but I hope someone does soon."

"Then what happened?"

"Hmm?"

"If no one asked you out, why are you so happy?" I demand, my impatience growing. If you haven't noticed, I have a bit of a short temper. I guess that comes from being Irish, but I'm pretty sure that's just a stereotype.

"Oh, it's a secret."

"I don't like secrets," I scowl. I really don't. I hate it when people keep secrets from me and I hate having to keep secrets. Either way, it somehow ends up getting spilled (not because of me, of course) and someone ends up yelling (usually me).

"Well, I can't tell you. I'm sorry, but you can't know yet. It's too young and unrealized. When it's time, I'll tell you, I promise. For now, though, I can't. Besides, I don't think you'd like it anyway."

"No," I say, considering the options. If it's about something she knows I don't like, then it must be about Charlie Dalton. "No, you can keep all your secrets about Dalton. If you want to have sex with him, go ahead. I don't care. I just think it'd be a bit of a waste."

"What do you mean by that?" she asks curiously.

Maybe I didn't say that too well. 'A bit of a waste'. I suppose I didn't elaborate because I meant that it would be a bit of a waste on both of their parts. Jessica shouldn't stoop so low as to have sex with a perverted, horny, rebellious (not necessarily a bad thing, but there should be limits) guy that supposedly makes fake, strange phone calls for Mr. Nolan and almost gets expelled for it. But I also meant that even Dalton shouldn't waste his time (even if it's just for the hormones) on a stupid, excitable, stereotypical blonde girl that needs to learn to fill her head with more than just air. I really don't like either of them that much, but they're both sort of growing on me in strange ways.

"Never you mind," I say at long last. "Now, are we going to the study group or not?"

Jessica seems rather disappointed by this, but she'll get over it. But then she suddenly turns very excited. She probably just remembered about the study group. See? Just as I previously predicted. She had forgotten. "Oh!" she cries enthusiastically. "I forgot about that!" See, told you! "I'm glad we get to see the boys again! They're all really nice, and I like them." Not surprised by that—I think she likes boys about as much (but probably not quite as much) as Dalton likes girls, which is probably a bit difficult, considering he likes them so damn much.

We gather our books and other things before we make our way toward the boys' common room. Mostly, I'm happy that she's here with me. I may not like her all that much, but she's still a girl and somewhat my salvation when surrounded by a bunch of boys, even if the only boy that's really a problem is Dalton and I can deal with him on my own.

That makes me wonder what he'll say or do now. Sure, I hadn't been all that nice to him before, but I have a feeling he hadn't expected that out of me. So what will his reaction be now that he's going to see me again? Hmm, I wonder… but I don't know. I doubt that anything he could say or do would be a surprise to me. He seems to be a bit eclectic in his responses to problems. Well, I wouldn't exactly call myself a problem, but this is me trying to think from his perspective (failing, aren't I?). Of course, I really have no idea what he thinks of me, and I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing.

Their common room is like ours when we reach it. Nothing special. Just some tables and chairs and a few other things. They do, however, have some other weird stuff hanging about the room, but that's just a guy thing, I think.

Ricky and Neil are the only ones here right now, so we make our way toward them and sit at the table with them. Once our books are on the table and out of our hands, we allow ourselves to speak.

"Hello!" exclaims Jessica. Typical.

Rick doesn't say a thing, but he looks up in acknowledgement.

"Hey," says Neil with a smile, but he looks at me as if he knows something I don't—and I don't like it one bit.

But I'm still quite happy that he's accepting us so easily. I've been afraid that, even though Ricky is fine with me (and Jessica to a point… but probably only to make me happy) sitting with them at meals and during classes and other stuff, the others wouldn't take to us very well. Neil and Dalton seem to be the head honchos, though, so, if we're to be accepted, it's to be done by them. I really don't think Dalton cares either way, but it was more Neil I was worried about… until now.

"Hi," I respond thoughtfully. "So what are we going to work on? I didn't know what to bring, so I just grabbed my stuff for all assignments due tomorrow."

"That sounds good," agrees Neil. "It's not like any of us could be having real trouble with any of our classes yet."

I nod, only half listening. "Yeah, I need to work on my science assignment." I push all thoughts out of my head and flip through my things, pulling out my science book, several sheets of loose-leaf paper, and a nice Number 2 pencil so that I can work.

Just as I'm doing so, Todd, Meeks, and Pitts come in, and we all stand or sit around this one table, which is a bit small to fit all of us. Easily, Pitts and Meeks push another table up against this one and the three newcomers sit down at that table.

Curiously, furrowing his brow, Neil asks them, "Where's Nuwanda?" God, does the conversation always have to go back to him? With a roll of my eyes, I return to my homework and begin answering questions as the boys talk (and I listen, but you can't tell anyone that—besides, it's difficult not to hear them sometimes).

"I think he's angry with us," says Meeks. He sounds a bit worried but also amused. Hmm, a strange friendship all these boys have.

"Yeah, he might not come," Pitts continues with a small shrug. "You know Charlie."

I have to admit that that makes me feel much better. If he's not here, I can't ruin my brilliant exit. But now I'm not so concerned about that. Now I'm just a bit confused. Why would Dalton be angry with them? What did they do after I left the dinner table earlier this evening? And does it have anything to do with what Jessica was saying before? Oh, I hope not, because then I probably won't get to know why he should be angry with them either.

"Why's he angry?" I ask, looking up from my bookwork curiously.

The boys all glance between each other, and Jessica giggles. That's when I know it has to do with Jessica's secret. Damn, I really do hate secrets.

At all the looks on their faces, I moan, "No, not this again," turning toward Jessica.

"Sorry," she says sincerely.

"I hate being the only one not to know something," I snap, looking between them all. "Somebody tell me. Now," but none of them move. When I know for certain none of them will give me a proper answer, I groan, pick up all my things, and leave the table. Jessica calls after me, but there's no way I'm turning back unless they tell me what they're keeping from me.

Without much effort, I'm out the door and on my way back toward my room in five minutes. I put my books down on my desk near my typewriter, but I can't focus on my work. Besides, I have a feeling that Jessica will come running after me to try to convince me that it's not important and she can't tell me yet. A waste of time, listening to her, though. If she's not going to tell me, I don't want to hear it. So I decide to leave the room and try to find some sort of refuge elsewhere.

It's still light outside when I venture out into the open sky, but the sun is about to set in the west. I watch it slowly descend through the sky toward the earth and glance around myself to take in all that's happening. The sky is darkening in the east, making me think of home and the fact that it's night where my mother is now.

Then, I notice that someone is standing up on the roof of the building, looking out across the darkening hills. In the waning light, I can barely recognize the figure there, but, if I'm not mistaken, I believe that it's Dalton up there. Why is he on the roof? I wonder if he would tell me what happened after I left the table at dinner.

Slowly but surely, I find my way up toward the roof. I'm not even sure how I did it, but I must have somehow because here I am. I can see him standing there ten feet in front of me now, and he's smoking—disgusting, but I want to talk to him so I guess I'll deal with it. As I approach him quietly, I say, "Why're you up here?"

He jumps—apparently, he hadn't heard my footsteps—and turns to look at me in confusion. "Why are you?" he asks. His voice isn't cocky or even angry like the others said—actually, it sounds like he's been thinking a lot, which is somewhat understandable, except for the fact that I don't even know why he's supposed to be angry.

"You don't get to ask me questions when you haven't answered mine," I reply as I move into the spot beside him.

He watches me as I do so and then turns back to the open land and the forest beyond that. "I came up to see things from a different perspective," he says slowly as his eyes cloud over.

Knitting my brow, I inquire, "Why? What's wrong?"

Apprehensively, he allows himself to look at me but quickly looks away. "Why are you up here?" he asks again, and I know he's trying to avoid the subject, but I decide to humor him anyway. "Shouldn't you be at the study group?"

"Yeah, but I got tired of them all looking at me like they know something I don't. Well, Ricky didn't, but he didn't even look at me. In fact, he's doing the same thing you're doing right now," I say matter-of-factly. "And Jessica kept going on about how she really wanted to tell me but she couldn't because it's too 'new' and 'unrealized'."

He laughs at that. "Bullshit. There's nothing _to_ realize," he says.

"Then you know what it's about, too," I observe almost bitterly.

"I guess so. I wish I didn't."

"Why? What is it about?"

He coughs, almost drops his cigarette, and, as he recovers, says, "It's not exactly something I'd like to repeat. Neil just had this stupid idea and now the others all think so, too. It's bullshit, though, and completely untrue."

"If it's just 'bullshit'," I respond in growing frustration, "why can't you tell me?" How difficult could it be to say a few words? Normally, he says quite a bit more than a few, so how is this different?

"There you are."

I don't quite understand what he means by that. It's like he's suddenly just realized that I'm standing beside him or something like that. "What?"

He sniggers and amends his statement. "I meant that you hadn't been acting like yourself before but you did when you raised your voice a bit there."

"Oh," I say quietly. "I really don't like fighting."

Shrugging, he replies, "As long as we're talking about vocally and not physically, I like it when you fight." God, he's such a… I don't even know, but he's definitely it—whatever 'it' is. I really don't understand how he can enjoy our little spats, but, I do recall, he's usually smirking or grinning whenever we have them, so it's not like it's really much of a surprise.

"Why do you enjoy it?" I snap. "Is it that you enjoy riling me up or something else?"

When he glances over at me, his face breaks into a grin, and he says, "A little bit of it is to see the way your face contorts—just like right now—and it's nice to see that I don't make everyone happy."

I'm not quite sure what that means, but it just sounds insane. Why would a person want to not make people happy? I guess I can understand to a point, but, beyond the part where making others happy could stunt one's own possible happiness, I don't. "I don't get you," I say to him, pushing my eyebrows together in the middle of my forehead in confusion.

"I don't get you either, Irish," he replies rather happily, "and I doubt I ever will."

"Does that drive you crazy?" I ask curiously.

He seems to consider it for moment, but then he says quite confidently, "No," and he looks to me like he's waiting for me to say something. When I don't, he just continues, "Because I plan on finding out eventually every little thing that drives _you_ crazy," with that smirk of his. "That'll be enough for me."

I just roll my eyes at him. "Can't you ever speak normally?" I spit, turning away from him.

"But it is normal for me."

"I didn't mean it that way. I meant normal for people in general and not just you."

"I know you did," he grins.

"Then you're just trying to annoy me again?" and he easily concurs.

We stand there in silence for a little while, and I guess I can see his point about the different perspective. Everything looks different from up. All the things we see bigger down there are small now, but the world around us seems so much bigger. And the sunset—it's definitely a better view of that.

"Is it helping?" I can't help asking.

"What?"

"Looking at it from a different perspective," I clarify, glancing over at him before focusing on the sun again as it slips down below the hills.

Through my peripheral vision, I can see him shrug as he speaks. "I guess. I mean, I can understand a little bit why they would think that, but that still doesn't make it true."

I nod, still a bit frustrated that I don't even really know what he's talking about. "Does it really matter what they think, though?"

He inhales sharply and then says, "Yes and no." I cock my eyebrow at him, convincing him to explain further. "Well, yes, because they are my friends, but, at the same time, no, because other people's opinions don't really matter… unless you're trying to secure a job or something, but I am most definitely not."

With a small smile, which I easily hide from him by turning my head completely, I add, "If they're your friends, then they should try to look at it from your perspective as well. Surely they'd be able to see it's not true if they know what you're thinking."

He gives off a short, unbelieving laugh and replies, "Even so, I think they'd only be further convinced."

"Then why isn't it true?" I ask impatiently, spinning my head around to see him again.

"It just isn't," he says firmly, and I'm not so sure I believe him either. "It can't be."

"Why can't it be?"

"Because."

"That's not a reason."

"Yes, it is."

"No, it isn't. It's a prelude for a reason but is not one itself."

"I know that," he snaps.

"You called it a reason, so you obviously didn't," I insist.

"Now you're just trying to be difficult, Irish."

"So are you," I smile.

"Wait," he says, looking at me and furrowing his brow.

"What?"

"There's something on your face. It looks a bit strange there, too. I think… no, I must be wrong. For a minute there, I thought there was a _smile_ on your face," he says, dragging it out dramatically.

I roll my eyes, my smile now completely gone. "Oh, I'm not allowed to smile now, am I?" I snap irritably.

After glancing at the darkening sky, he drops the remnants of his cigarette, which he has been neglecting for almost the entire time I've been up here, onto the concrete and smashes it beneath his foot. I really don't understand how anyone could want to smoke those things. They smell disgusting, and they make your teeth yellow—even if the cigarette companies may deny that.

Heaving a sigh, I force myself to turn back to the way I had come up here and say, "Well, it's getting dark, and I still have some assignments due tomorrow." I begin walking but stop in my tracks a moment later. "You want to study with me?" I ask, glancing back at him.

He shrugs but follows me off the roof without a word.

Not too long later, we reach the area where our two paths generally part to reach our separate dormitories, and we both stop walking. We glance between each other for a moment, and then he says, "I don't have any of my stuff with me."

"Have you begun any of your work yet?"

"Not really."

"Then you don't need to go get anything. We have all the same classes, you know, so we have all the same books, and I have plenty of paper you can use." I grab him by the forearm and pull him with me, saying, "Come on. We don't have much time, so we shouldn't waste any." That's much better! Now he's walking _beside_ me and not _behind_ me. I really hate it when people walk behind me, especially for long periods of time.

Amazingly, Jessica's not inside when we reach my dormitory—which means that either she doesn't care or the boys convinced her to stay there… or maybe she came back, discovered I wasn't here, and then went back—and I breathe a sigh of relief.

As I move toward my bed, he closes the door and leans up against it. There's something different about him right now, and I'm not sure what it is, but he appears a bit awkward—definitely not how he acted last time he was in my dormitory (wow, that sounds really bad!).

"Are you sure you're all right?" I ask him.

"Yeah," he says as he slowly makes his way toward my bed and sits down beside me. "So what are we working on?"

I lean over toward my desk and pull off of it my two books, paper, and a couple pencils. And, after explaining to him what the assignments were, we decide to each do one assignment and then switch books. It's not like the assignments are really that different in length, so we're able to do them quickly and with great ease—and I have to say that that's the fastest I've ever done any of my homework, which is a bit surprising, considering that I had thought he would make it difficult. Of course, being in the mood he's in, he's not trying to pull anything I wouldn't like.

Now here we are both with our backs against the wall on the side of my bed and schoolbooks on our laps, our images practically mirrors of each other… except for the obvious bit about us being, you know, completely different people and different genders. And then we both sigh at the same time—just a tad freaky, if you ask me—and both look at each other because of it.

"So much for a study group," I say, finally sitting up and moving away my schoolwork, something I definitely don't want to focus on right now.

All he says in response is, "Yeah."

You know, before, I had liked the sort of change, but now it's just unnerving. It's too weird for him to be normal one time I see him and then not the next. I really want to know what it was those boys said to him to make him think like this. It's just… wrong. And, as much as I dislike the normal Charlie Dalton, this person isn't him, and I don't like it anymore.

I search around in my head for a topic that might liven him up, but nothing really comes to mind, so I take a glance at him and say the first thing that pops into my head. "You know, it's sort of funny. Out of all the people I've seen here, you wear the least amount of clothing. Is that so that it takes less time to remove when you're fooling around or because you're a beatnik?" I ask, genuinely curious, as he deftly loosens his tie.

He grins at my statement and says, "So you have been thinking about getting me naked."

"No," I reply.

"You've obviously been watching me, though, and, if you're talking about me fooling around, you probably have someone in mind."

"There's no way I'm having sex with you."

"Not even a little kiss?" he asks innocently.

"There you are," I say with a small smirk.

"Huh?" He's confused at first, but then he recognizes it as what he said to me earlier and smiles. "You missed the normal me, huh?"

I shrug, saying, "Not really, but you being distant and almost depressed is just too weird."

"Does this mean I get to annoy the hell out of you and you won't yell at me?" He's smirking, but there's something about the tone of his voice that… I don't know. He just sounds like he thinks there's something wrong with that possibility, and I suppose there is something wrong with it. It would be strange for me to just allow him to annoy me and not do anything about it.

"Definitely not. I won't let you get away with that without some sort of retribution."

He sighs in relief (I think, at least) and grins again. "Good, because that would just be weird." He seems to agree with me, then, but I'm not sure of his motives for agreeing with me.

Damn, I really want to know what it was that Neil said to make him so upset before. When I first went up on the roof with him, it almost seemed as if he hadn't wanted me there. Maybe that was just because he was trying to think, but, then again, it could have been that he just didn't want to see _me_. That doesn't seem very like him, though. Sure, a lot of the time, it appears as if he doesn't like me at all, but he chooses to hang around with me nonetheless, so that can't be all of it, can it? I don't know, but, whatever the reason, I've now discovered there's more to him than meets the eye—it's not like I really thought he has a shallow character before, though, so I don't know.

I glance over at him and see he's just sitting there with his head leaned back against the wall and his eyes closed. What's he doing? I don't know, but he certainly seems at peace now… far more than he was earlier.

Slowly but carefully, I pick up my book and papers and move them to my desk. I move the book from his lap, too, but leave his assignments there so he doesn't forget them later when he's to leave. He opens his eyes as I do so and closes them again when I'm settling back in my seat once more.

As I watch him again, I wonder why I haven't thrown him out yet. My small clock says that it's almost time for bed, and so does my body, and yet I haven't made him leave. Think I'm going soft? Yeah, just a little bit. Or it could be because I'm tired—and I _really_ am tired. It's only been a day of schoolwork and classes, but I'm still tired from it—and that's frustrating! But I'm getting used to the same sort of schedule again, and things are a little bit different here than in Dublin.

I let my eyes flutter shut for a moment and relish the silence. For some reason, it just seems natural—not at all awkward like most people make silences out to be. I guess that, after all the arguments between myself and Dalton, it's nice to finally have some peace and quiet when we're both in the room. I really don't know why we have to fight anyway. I don't like fighting, but, like he said earlier, he apparently does. So what is there really for me to say on the matter?

I still don't really understand the reasons he gave for wanting to fight with me. What's so funny about my face contorting? It must look rather odd or something when I'm angry because, otherwise, I'm at a loss. But I think there's something more to it than what he said to me. I don't know what it could possibly be, but he didn't seem completely truthful when saying that. Of course, I don't know if I can trust him at all, so it's not like that's all that surprising anyway.

Outside the door, I can hear the hard approaching footsteps of the night watchman (I forget his name because I don't have any classes with the teacher this year) as he calls out, "Five minutes!" But it sounds distant and indistinct. Am I falling asleep that quickly? I hadn't even realized.

I feel the bed move beside me and someone's hands push me down so that I lay here properly. My eyes flicker, but I don't see anything. It's too bright, and I roll away from the light toward the wall. I can feel the blankets and sheets being pulled out from under me and then placed on top.

A moment later, I hear voices, one masculine and one feminine. I can certainly tell that the girl is Jessica, but her voice is so easy to recognize—it's so damn annoying. I say, "Shut up," at the sound, but I don't think it comes out the way it was supposed to, and, then, the door closes.

The beginnings of my dreams distorts the world around me (everything I hear and feel), and it all seems like it's slowly drifting away, but I recognize Jessica's voice (but what she says) before I drift into the darkness of sleep and the comfort my dreams tend to bring. Whatever it is, it sounds a bit important, but I can't focus my mind well enough to hear the words properly. Hmm, maybe I'll convince her to tell me tomorrow, but I doubt that. In fact, I think I've decided not to speak to her.

* * *

_Well, there's another chapter. There's something about this one that bothers me, so please, if you have any suggestions for it, tell me. I want to try to fix whatever it is, but I just can't pinpoint it._

_I just want everyone who's reading this (not that there are many of you) to know that this story is going to be moving along a bit slowly. Yes, these last two chapters made it feel otherwise, but Charlie doesn't believe them and things are just going to go right back to where they were before Neil made his idea known at the end of the third chapter._

_Thank you all for reading. Please leave me a review._

_Anatui_


	5. Back to Normal

_Chapter 5 – Back to Normal._ (Charlie's POV)

This feels so very awkward. It's not like there's really anything wrong about it, but it's just so out of character for me. I'm just sitting here. Alone with a girl. In her room. And I'm letting her fall asleep! Of course, it helps—well, I wouldn't say really 'helps', but 'explains'—that she'd kill me if I had tried something. And I mean _killed_! Dead, murdered, stabbed, bludgeoned, sliced, pierced—just plain dead. Not a very pleasant thought, if you ask me.

I glance over at her to see she's falling asleep beside me, slowly sliding toward my shoulder and I welcome that. But, at Mr. Everett's voice, I realize I need to go. If I don't hurry, I'll get demerits—of course, it's not like that really matters, especially not to me.

So I move off of the bed and onto my own two feet, taking my papers with me. Now she's sliding into what looks like an uncomfortable position, so I have to do something about that. Gently, I push her down on the bed and move her legs so that they're in the proper position before trying to pull the blankets up over her. It's a bit difficult because she's laying on them, but it's not like she's really heavy or anything.

After that, I move toward the door just as it opens and Jessica enters. She appears startled to see me here, but she gets over that quickly. I guess she still has Neil's little, weird ideas in her head because she sends my a funny look and grins deviously. "What are you doing here?" she asks.

"We were working on schoolwork," I respond, flashing her my papers before trying to pass her.

She's disappointed by what I say—it doesn't take a genius like Meeks to discover that—and blocks my way. "Oh, didn't you forget to give her a good night kiss?"

I cock an eyebrow at that. She's weird, really weird. I mean, before I thought she was just ditzy, but now I think she's a little bit more than that. She seems to live in a dream world where everything is perfect. Actually, wait a minute, in a world where everything's perfect, Irish and I would be together? Uh, maybe not. But that's beyond the point. Jessica Hennessey is just plain weird.

"Oh, come on!" she almost pleads.

"Uh, no," I say awkwardly.

From her bed, Irish moans something that sounds distinctly like, "Shut up!" only much more muddled and nearly inaudible.

Sending one more glance back at Irish as she sleeps, I push past Jessica and out the door, thinking that was probably the single most weirdest thing I've ever encountered… except maybe Neil's Puck-laughter. I rub the sleep from my eyes and sigh as I hear Jessica close the door behind me. With that last barrier up, I feel it's safe to travel back to my own domain. Hmm, nice poetic words.

The walk back to my own dormitory is silent, and there's no one about. Apparently everyone else has already gone to bed, because I'm the only one in the corridors… except maybe Hager, but he doesn't count.

I enter the dormitory only a minute before lights out and thus luckily receive no demerits (possibly unluckily if I were in a different mood). Knox is here, waiting for me, probably, so I'm certainly not surprised to see him there, sitting on his bed patiently for me to walk in the door. "Oh, there you are," he says at the sight of me, and I smile lightly at his choice of words but hide that from him. "Where have you been?" he asks in concern.

Shrugging, I set my assignment papers on my desk and lay down on my bed, not bothering to change my clothes at all. I'm still upset about earlier, so I don't exactly feel like talking to him, even if he is my best friend. After all, best friends have arguments and fights, so I can be angry if I want. Of course, a lot of the time, those arguments and fights are over stupid things—this is a pretty stupid thing to argue about, though, if you ask me. They'd probably agree, too.

"Not talking to me?" he sighs as he get up, turns off the lights, and moves back to his own bed on the opposite side of the room. We both lay in silence for a while, until, "I agree with Neil, but that doesn't mean it's true," he adds into the darkness, not expecting me to respond at all. I guess I can see what he's trying to say, but something still confuses me: If he agrees with Neil, how can he still believe that it has the possibility to be untrue? That doesn't make any sense. I guess it's a sort of faith thing, but that still doesn't make much sense to me. I don't know. Like I've said before, sometimes I don't understand them.

I roll over on my side, my back to the wall, as I say loudly enough for him to hear me, "Then why do you even agree with him?" There's bitterness in my voice, but I can't really help that. All right, I can, but I'm not sure I completely want to. Besides, he needs to understand my feelings on the matter.

He makes a small sound in surprise. "Because, as unlike you it may be, it just seems right. I am the only one of us with a girlfriend, now aren't I? You, on the other hand, haven't had a girlfriend in… how many years?"

"I've been with more girls in the last three years than you have in your entire life, Knoxious," I snap back with a devious smirk. It's definitely true, and we both know it.

He laughs at that, and I know he understands the point I was trying to get across with that statement. "Yeah, but you don't care about any them, do you?" he retorts. But maybe not.

"That's not the point." Again with my bitterness. What's he getting at, anyway?

"It's _my_ point, though. I wasn't talking about 'being' with girls because you've certainly done that more than me. I used the term 'girlfriend' because that usually means that she matters to you."

"Yeah, and, since I haven't had one for a few years, I obviously don't care about any of them," I return savagely.

All right, I know I shouldn't bite his head off, but I guess I'm just upset that he's right. Knox is right, and I'm wrong. There I've said it. Well, technically, I accepted it in my thoughts and didn't say it out loud, but I'm all right with that. It's better than nothing, right? And this is the part where Neil laughs and asks us what we've been smoking because it's definitely not normal cigarettes like usual.

"I was just saying that I know more about relationships than you do, even if you know more about girls."

See? That's just more of him being right and me being wrong, but that doesn't mean he wins this argument at all. Of course, I'm not sure how I can when because I'm not sure where this conversation is even headed. Knox better hurry up with that plotline.

"So that means you get to decide when I'm harboring feelings for a girl?" I ask incredulously.

"No, but it does mean I can tell a lot easier than you can," he replies with a defeatist sigh. "Good night, Charlie," and I hear the squeaks of him tossing and turning on the bed to get comfortable.

"Name's Nuwanda," I easily correct him with a small smile before trying to fall asleep myself. I guess I forgive him already—when it comes to Knox and Neil, I give up too easily, but they're my best friends, so what else am I supposed to do? Unless it's something I really care about, but something like that doesn't happen too often.

I don't remember falling asleep, but it's just one of those things where it happens and you don't even realize you've slept at all until the morning when you wake up. So no dreaming either. I must have slept deeply—or else it was so horrible that I pushed all remnants out of my head before I even woke up, which would be quite a thing, but I still don't think that that's the case.

When Knox and I talk while getting ready, everything is back to normal, and it almost feels like half of yesterday didn't even happen. It's nice, but it's almost surreal at the same time. I don't really object to that, though.

Breakfast is lively and happy when we reach it, but, at the sight of me, the others calm down—well, I wouldn't really call it 'calming down'. They actually grow anxious, probably because they think I'm still angry with them. But, let's face it, I'm definitely not. I gave up on that too easily, but oh well.

I ease into my seat and glance between everyone expectantly before dishing up. I'm not that hungry, but I should eat anyway. Yet another day of classes before we have our first weekend, and tonight is our first Dead Poets Society meeting of the new school year. I can barely wait, but it'll hardly be fun with all the guys acting like this. God, it's not like I'm going to snap at them or anything. If I were in the mood I was in yesterday after lunch, I most definitely would, but now I feel fine.

I'm about to say something to break the silence when something else does so first: the girls arrive. Irish is whisper-yelling as Jessica tries to talk to her. Apparently they're not back to the dull yet intriguing, almost and sometimes (but also not sometimes) hopefully everlasting state of nature known as normal—not yet, anyway.

"Oh, for God's sake, Jessica, will you shut up?!" whisper-yells Irish as she slams her ass down on her chosen seat.

"I'm really sorry, Moira," the girl tries to amend. It's futile, though, and they both know it. Maybe she thinks that she'll get points for courage and perseverance if she continues to pursue, though. Or maybe she's just as stubborn as Irish it, but I doubt that. She's too dense to be stubborn.

"I won't accept your apology," snaps back Irish, "and I won't be speaking to you any longer, so please leave me alone." She glances around the table only to find that, after that little spat is over, everything is quiet and cold again.

Hmm, Nolan would probably approve of this quietness—and we certainly don't want that, now do we? So I better find some way to turn the tables and make this much louder. Sound is good.

When she looks at me, she sends me a small smile, probably because we got along last night (sort of), and I smirk back, trying to make things as normal as possible. (It certainly wouldn't be normal if the two of us got along. My logic astounds you, doesn't it? You're left dumbfounded, aren't you? Excellent, because that's exactly what I want.) Her smile disappears, and it reminds me just how much I love the fact that I can frustrate her with just those few muscle movements.

And, then, everything just seems to be all right, and everyone starts talking as if nothing's happened in the past twenty-four hours to make anyone upset in the least. Irish still won't talk to Jessica, but that could easily be contributed to the fact that (I have a feeling) Irish never cared for the girl much anyway. But, other than that, it's back to normal.

What's so great about normal, though, really? Frankly, I don't know. It's just the same monotonous, boring crap over and over, and yet it's also comforting in a strange way. If it's always the same, there's no threat of change. Change is a scary thing, really, but so many people don't think twice about it. Wonder why that is. But that's all completely off subject—not that there really is a subject here.

I suppose the whole day is a sort of blur. I don't remember most of it—but it's not the same sort of blue as if I were drunk, which doesn't happen often—so I couldn't really tell you what happened… well, at least no particulars. We went to classes like usual and did our same, boring work, so there's not much to say anyway, now is there? No? I didn't think so.

Besides, the real fun doesn't begin until later after lights out. Come on, the first Friday night of the school year. Does the administration really think that people won't be celebrating at least a little bit? Are they that dense? I mean, it's not like we're all going to get smashed and then get laid, but we've got to celebrate at least a little bit. Why do you think we're having our first Dead Poets Society meeting tonight?

And so, at nearly eleven in the evening, the seven of us steal out into the night and make for that wonderful, old Indian cave that holds so many memories. To tell the truth, I've been waiting for this practically all summer. I was anxious to come back to school, and one of those reasons was definitely for the Dead Poets. We got together a couple times over the summer, but it was never the same.

That only makes me wonder what it'll be like after this school year. This is our last year—we're seniors now—so what will happen to us afterwards? Really, I don't even know what I want to do with my life, so that's just another thing to think about. I have to admit I'm a little bit scared—an oddity coming from me, Charlie Dalton, I know, but still true—that I won't make it.

We've been sheltered and shackled all our lives that we want free but will we know how to be free when the time comes? Neil will (for sure). Knox definitely will; he'll marry Chris and live happily ever after probably. Pitts and Meeks will, too, and they'll most likely be doing whatever they end up doing together. Cameron… he'll follow in the footsteps of his beloved father—I met him once, and he's not all that great, really. Sometimes, I'm not sure about Todd, but he grows more and more like Neil as time passes and he spends more time with us; he's still reserved, but he's different.

But me? I don't know. I'm the one that always pushes the limits and ends up going too far. I end up ruining a lot of chances I might have had if I had kept my mouth shut. I really do screw up a lot. I could say that that's just how I am because it is, but that's still a lazy excuse—just the sort of excuse I'd give, though, isn't it? Still, I don't know if I'll be able to survive in a world where I can screw up my entire life by one false step. Knowing me, I'd definitely make a lot of those.

Until then, though, we're still shackled and yet free to make mistakes just as long as they're not too big. Until then, we have second chances. After graduation, I don't know. We'll have bigger choices to make, ones that will change our lives, possibly for the better but also possibly for the worse.

So where will I be during all of that? I don't know. I don't know what I want to do with myself. My parents want me to be a banker, to follow in the footsteps of my father. But I don't want that. I want to do what I love… it's just that I'm not sure what exactly that is right now. I guess I'll have to see, but I'm always taking chances like that and I'm not so sure I want to chance my entire life like that. I won't always have my parents and their extravagant bank accounts to back me up, especially not after I tell them that I won't do what they want me to do.

As we recite our usual quotation from Henry David Thoreau, I realize that we have already reached the cave and I've been wasting away time just thinking about this. "I went to woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck our all the marrow of life, to put to rout all that was not life, and not, when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived."

With our narration completed, Neil speaks as the leader of our little company. "As this is the beginning of the new school year, we have several issues to attend to." I was unaware of this and thus listen intently. "First, our Mr. Cameron," he continues in his loud, professional-sounding voice, "has suggested to me that we consider allowing new initiates into the Society."

"Moira?" asks Knox, glancing sidelong toward Cameron and easily ruining the aura that Neil had been creating.

"Yes," he answers in the same voice. "His suggestion was indeed Miss Moira O'Brien and perhaps her friend, Miss Jessica Hennessey."

"Are you sure they'd want to join?" Meeks inquired.

I have to say I agree with him. Irish would probably love to do it, but I doubt Jessica would want to. And Irish would only want to if another girl were doing it as well because that's just the way girls are. They have to stick together… or they'll freak out and just randomly die or something.

"That's not the question at hand," responds Neil (still using that voice, which is getting more and more amusing the more I hear it). "The question is whether or not there are any objections to the both of them joining."

Finally, Cameron speaks up. "If they're going to join, they've got to be in completely, though. Moira wouldn't like it if we only invited her as a visitor to one meeting and then never again."

"Any objections?" reiterates Neil, glancing between us all.

I shrug and say, "I'm game," as I pull out my carton of cigarettes and light a smoke.

"Sounds all right to me," Knox concurs. I grin at that. He's only really agreeing because Chris felt awkward around a bunch of guys the last (and only) time she came to one of our meetings. I don't really blame her, actually. So, of course, Knox, being the dorky, sweet-hearted boy that he is, will do anything he can to make her feel better.

"I was the one to suggest it," Cameron says, stating the obvious. I guess he's just saying that to make sure we all know he agrees. Not that we didn't anyway because, as he said, it was his idea. I should hope he agrees with his ideas… but, then again, knowing Cameron, he probably wouldn't if his father of Mr. Nolan told him they were bad. What a dumbass.

"I'm all right with that," Todd says with a nervous, one-shoulder shrug. Not stuttering again. Hell, I'm even proud of him now, but not surprised.

"I don't know," puts in Pitts apprehensively. "It doesn't seem like they like us that much."

I laugh at that. "Come on, Pittsie. When I first met you, did it seem like I liked you that much?"

He scowls slightly at that. If it weren't for Neil, I probably still wouldn't like either him or Meeks, but I most definitely do now. Of course it's the same sort of thing with Todd now. And with Cameron—except for the fact that I still don't and never will like Cameron at all.

"Besides, Jessica likes everyone," I continue, but I quickly add, "Well, more like just boys in general."

"Yeah," adds Knox quite seriously. "I'm sure Moira likes you, anyway. If there's anyone she doesn't like, I think she's made it quite clear that it's Charlie."

"Hey!" I snap, and I pick up a small cookie off our 'picnic blanket'—not sure whose coat it is this time—and throw it at him.

After that, both Pitts and Meeks agree. I know they've enjoyed spending time with the girls, but it is a bit difficult to spend time with them when Irish is always yelling at me and then running off and when Jessica is always gushing with stupidity. Those two things do make it a bit difficult to get to know them, I suppose.

"Then it's settled," Neil decides excitedly. "Ask her tomorrow?" After receiving no objections, we continue on to the next item. "Secondly, this year we should set some sort of limitations to the amount of information about the Dead Poets that is leaked beyond the members. We want to keep this completely confidential and secret throughout the entire year."

For some reason, right at that point, everyone turns to me—and I turn elsewhere. Knox finds it appropriate to say, "Yeah, _Charlie_!" and throw that damned cookie right back at me. I just look innocent. And the others laugh.

I think we're all a little frightened about what might happen if we _were_ ever possibly found out, though. We'd all probably be expelled. I'm fine with risking that again—after all, it was my fault with the newspaper article—but not if it could cause the others trouble. I'm fine with being expelled—well, not quite as fine with it as I would have been a year ago—but I don't want to cause the others trouble. It's only by a miracle (maybe God actually _does_ love me—half the time, I don't know) that we're still all together and here, even if some people—like, say, Cameron?—were a little hesitant about starting up the Society again this year. I was fine with leaving him out of it, but Neil had to go and convince him to stay. Neil's too nice.

"Okay, okay," I say earnestly, "I promise I won't get us all expelled. No more phone calls from God—not even if they're collect."

Our meeting continues as normal. We take turns reading from the book that Neil always keeps safe while we're away from the meetings and letting the words drop from our tongues like honey, just as Mr. Keating said almost a year ago. Spirits soar, women swoon, and gods are created—definitely not a bad way to spend an evening at all.

And so, two and a half hours later, we make our return journey toward Hell-ton and our dormitories and sleep. It goes a lot faster than the journey to the cave, but that just might be because I'm actually paying attention this time. As we creep around the small girls' building, though, swiftly making our way toward the nearest entrance to our dorms, something startles us all from behind.

"And what are you boys doing out here so late?" It's a strong, demanding voice that I recognize almost immediately. I glance between the others, though, and they all seem frightened that it's a teacher and we've been caught. When none of us respond, the now obviously female voice continues, "Oh, don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. What the hell are you doing out here at two in the morning?"

I spin around and look her straight in the face. "Hey there, Irish," I greet with a grin. "Say, what are you doing up so late?"

She rolls her eyes at me. Definitely back to normal, that's for sure. "What are you guys doing out here?" she demands, allowing her voice to carry a bit further than we'd all like.

"Hush!" cries Cameron in the loudest whisper he dares to use. "You'll get us caught, Moira."

"Oh, and I wouldn't get caught as well? I'm out of bed just like all of you. Although, I could easily say that I saw you through my window as you came back from the woods and couldn't find the teacher. Hmm, wouldn't that prove difficult for you to explain?" she threatens, placing her hands on her hips. That looks in her eyes again, but there's more to it than just the fact that we were out of bed. She's not like Cameron in the fact that she doesn't mind breaking rules. So there must be something else frustrating her. "Now why don't you just tell me why you're out of bed so that I don't have to tell that deceptively true statement to whichever teacher comes first?" Ah, that must be it. I think she just might want us to tell her why we were off in the woods a little bit ago.

"You know," I say pensively, "I think she's right. We really ought to tell her."

Neil rolls his eyes at me and adds, "Especially since we were going to tell her anyway, right?"

"Exactly," I agree.

"Yeah, whatever," she says, tossing whatever I say aside. "Now what were you all doing in the woods for those three and a half hours you were gone? I almost fell asleep three times while waiting for you to come back. My book got really boring, too, which certainly wasn't any fun."

"You saw us leave?" asks Cameron, completely aghast. God, the look on his face is classic. A mixture of utter horror and fear. I'll have to commit that to memory to recall whenever I'm pissed off at him. In fact, that could come in handy a lot. He does annoy me quite an awful bit, after all.

With a roll of her eyes, she replies, "How else would I know you would be coming back at all? Jeez, Rick, you're not very smart, are you?"

He huffs but keeps quiet. A very good choice, I must admit. I'm pretty sure he doesn't want her to start yelling because that would attract teachers and he doesn't want to get in trouble—that's just such a big surprise, too, isn't it? Or not. Stupid Cameron and his stupid, 'All I'm saying is we have to be careful. We can't get caught.' Who does he seriously think we are? Idiots? Definitely not like him.

"Are you," Neil inquires anxiously, his face contorting almost painfully, "disappointed in us, Moira?"

Then, her expression changes from stern to jovial, and she lets out a short, tumultuous laugh. "No," she says as a smile graces her lips. "Actually, my opinion of Ricky was just raised a bit now that he's learned how to break rules. I really should congratulate whichever one of you convinced him to do it. He really needs to loosen up." And that's exactly what all the others do. As they visibly relax, her smile widens. "You really think I'd just turn you in?" she laughs. "Who do you guys think I am? Richard Cameron?"

I smirk at that. I certainly didn't think she would, but the others obviously did. If they were so afraid of that, why exactly were they even considering inviting her into the Dead Poets Society? Where's the logic in that? Sometimes, I really don't understand my friends. People really can act stupid sometimes.

"Now who'll tell me what you were doing?" she asks, her voice returning to its previous severe tone as her impatience grows steadily.

"We don't have time for this," Cameron complains—always with the constant complaining—and he turns toward the door. "We need to go to bed." No one makes a move to stop him, and, not a moment later, he's out of sight and inside the building. Coward.

"Some great friend he is," she mutters, rolling her eyes once again (she likes to do that, doesn't she?). "Anyone else?"

"Moira, he's right," begins Neil quietly. "This isn't really the best time, and it's definitely not the best place. We can't—"

"Why not?" she demands.

"It's late."

"Or early," she argues.

"We should be in bed."

"So says the domineering, authoritarian society that claims to know exactly what's right and what's wrong," she snaps back at him. "Are we just going to let them control our lives forever? Obviously not because we're all already out here anyway."

"You just like to contradict things, don't you?" I observe with a grin.

The more I get to know her, the more I enjoy pushing her buttons. But then she acts like it's such a surprise or something. Seriously, she was talking before about how it's so blatantly obvious that I'm perverted, but she doesn't say anything about how it's so blatantly obvious that she's easily annoyed. Her buttons are the most obvious buttons I've ever seen before. Hmm, she should work on that a bit.

She wrinkles her nose at me but otherwise ignores the comment. That's mean. "It's not like it'll be worse than how much trouble we'd all be in anyway. It's just a little while longer. No big deal," she continues.

"Well, we shouldn't talk out here," insists Knox, glancing around quickly to make sure no teachers are in sight. "If we're going to talk, it has to be somewhere more secluded."

"Be quiet, then, and follow me," she says, turning toward the door to the girls' building with a small exasperated smile. "You can come up to my dorm." Hmm, I like this idea, but I don't think she means it the way I'd hope. It'd be a bit awkward with all these other guys, especially ones that are my friends, tagging along.

I follow without a moment's hesitation, but I guess that's just because I'm perfectly fine with entering a woman's room. But the other five boys all hesitate before following suit. They're probably all thinking the same thing I am—well, except for the part where I'm thinking about how we're all thinking the same thing. That would be just a bit awkward. But maybe that's how we're all actually thinking the same thing: we're thinking that we're all thinking the same thing and then therefore are. Wow, that's confusing.

_

* * *

_

_Okay, so there's another chapter. A strange paragraph to end it with, I know, but that's all right. The next chapter should be coming soon, another one from Moira's perspective. It'll show the outcome of their conversation in her dorm room and probably a little more stuff after that. I'm not sure what, though. I'm just going to let the ideas flow and whatever decides to come next will come next._

_Thank you for reading again. I love it when people read my stories. But you know what I love even more? Reviews. They're grand, and they make me happy. So do me a favor and leave one to me to read and cherish for the rest of my DPS Internetting life._

_Anatui_


	6. Charmer

_Chapter 6 – Charmer._ (Moira's POV)

When I enter, Jessica's awake. She looks startled or scared or something. "Moira," she exclaims at the sight of me, "where have you been? I woke up a little while ago, and I thought you'd gone to the bathroom, but, when you didn't come back… I thought—"

I roll my eyes and snap, "Shut up, Jess," before turning back toward the open door. "Are you guys coming or not?" I call out toward them in the quietest voice I can.

None of the boys have come in yet. Are they that far behind? I hadn't realized. Or are they just walking slowly because they're nervous? Seriously, it's just a girls' room. It's not like we're going to kill them or anything like that. What are they so afraid of? Have any of these guys (other than Dalton because I know for sure he's been in here twice before) ever even been inside a girl's room at all? I doubt it. These poor guys have been sheltered at this place, not really introduced to even a thing such as girls.

But apparently Dalton isn't afraid. He easily marches inside like he owns the place and steals my bed. Bastard. He's probably been in girls' rooms far too many times—well, at least too many for comfort.

The others come in slowly and congregate around the door, which causes me to roll my eyes. Seriously, they need to get out of the way or I won't be able to close the door and we'll all be caught. "Sit down," I insist, inclining my head toward the opposite side of the room in slight frustration.

Neil is the first to move, but that's not that surprising. He makes Dalton sit up probably and takes the spot beside him on my bed. After that, Todd, Meeks, and Pitts all follow suit, finding any space they can on my side of the room. Of course they take _my_ side of the room! Are they too afraid of sitting near a girl? Actually, I don't blame them for not wanting to sit near Jessica. She'd probably… I don't know, but I'd be afraid, too. But, still, they're not even thinking about the fact that that leaves me to sit over by her—and I'm currently trying to completely ignore her… but I'm failing a bit because I keep telling her to shut up, but oh well.

"What's going on?" asks Jessica from her bed, sitting up to see what's happening.

With a small sigh, I ignore her statement, close the door, filling the room with an air of finality, and move toward her bed. And so I sit here with her, staring across the room at all the boys clustered there. Not exactly my definition of 'fun', but I'm impatient to know what these crazy boys were doing out there. Can you really blame me, anyway? When none of them speak, I say, "Well, are you going to tell me or not?"

Neil glances between the other boys before inhaling deeply and saying, "Well, we were out there because of something called the Dead Poets Society. We get together at meetings and read poetry—"

"What's so special about that?" interrupts Jessica curiously, and I roll my eyes. God, she can be so stupid. I don't even think she even really understands what poetry is. It's not just rhyme and meter and rhythm. There's far more to it than that, and not even all poetry has those things.

"Shut up, will you," I snap. "Let him speak."

"Can't really explain it the way Captain did," Pitts sighs forlornly. I guess I can sort of understand that. It's difficult to explain something the way someone else explained it to you first.

"Who's 'Captain'?" I ask, straightening my back eagerly.

There's something about this that's just very intriguing. I don't know how to explain it, but sneaking out of bed to read poems in the middle of the night just sounds like fun to me. But something strikes me as a little odd. I don't think that these boys—well, maybe Neil—would want to go out just to read poetry. There must be more to it, because that just doesn't make sense.

"Mr. Keating," answers Neil.

I lean back against the wall as most of the boys attempt to contribute to the story—none of them are really doing a good job of explaining, especially when I can only hear half of what's being said. I sigh in slight frustration before saying, "Shut up, all of you!" When that was done, I continued in a loud whisper, knowing very well that anyone in the rooms around us would have been able to hear all of that. "Now, somebody—anybody—just start at the beginning."

The room was silent for a moment as Neil, Knox, Meeks, and Pitts all glanced between each other, trying to decide who should go first. God, they're just wasting more time. But it's not like I can really reprimand them again. They're not too loud, and it would probably just waste more time.

And now, finally, Meeks takes initiative. "Well," he says, "last year, when Mr. Keating first came here, he told us about the Dead Poets Society. We found it in his school annual."

"I searched," Neil interjects, "but I couldn't find it anywhere else."

"So we went to speak to him," continued Meeks. "He told us, uh, if I can remember the words he used, 'The Dead Poets were dedicated to sucking the marrow out of life.' That phrase comes from a quote from Thoreau that we recite at the beginning of every meeting."

At that point, Neil opens the book he's been carrying in his hands (hadn't really noticed it before) to one of the first pages and holds it out to us. I heave a sigh and push myself forward so that I can take it out of his hands. When I have it in my own hands, I read aloud so that Jessica can hear as well. "'To Be Read At The Opening of D. P. S. Meetings: I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to put to rout all that was not life, and not, when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived.'"

Silence ensues for a little while again, but I don't look up from the page, until someone breaks that quiet again.

"Captain told us that they had met at the old Indian cave," puts in Neil, "where they read poetry, mostly from that book you're holding, and sometimes they even read some they had written themselves. So, that night, we went out to the cave and we did what he told us about."

"All you do is read a bunch of poems to each other?" asks Jessica, not impressed. God, could she get any denser? On second thought, she probably could, so I'll try not to push my luck.

Knox laughs at that almost reminiscently. "Mr. Keating and the Dead Poets Society taught us to seize the day. It's not just poetry. It's about being who you are without any drawbacks or unwanted consequences. Spirits soar, women swoon, and gods are created—thought I'm pretty sure you don't care about the women swooning like we do."

Well, he's definitely right. I most definitely don't care about that, but I get the feeling that some of these boys care a bit too much about it… say, Dalton? Probably.

"It took your English teacher and a poetry book to convince you to be yourself and seize the day?" I ask, slightly surprised by the fact that they hadn't done so sooner. "You couldn't figure that out of your own?"

These boys seem so knowledgeable when it comes to something like seizing the day—that's 'carpe diem', right?—and sucking all the marrow out of life. It's not like I had really noticed before now, though, but they've all always had that sort of aura about them, something that didn't actually register in my mind until just moments ago. I hadn't even realized it until now. But they just seem so… I don't know, almost mature, but, at the same time, they aren't at all. Oh, that doesn't really make sense, but I'm unsure of how to explain it in any other way.

Neil sighs at my statement and stands up, obviously assuming the worst. "If you don't want to," he says, moving toward the door, "we can go."

"Maybe that would be best," Jessica replies.

And, behind him, Knox, Meeks, Pitts, and Todd all stand up as well and follow him. The only one that doesn't move is Dalton—all right, that's a lie. He does move, but it's definitely not off my bed. Instead, he merely lays down again, like before Neil forced him to be a gentleman (not that you can really be forced to do that), and takes complete control of my poor bed.

"You coming, Nuwanda?" asks Knox.

But, when he's about to respond, I get up off Jessica's bed and say, "Wait a minute. Who said _I_ wasn't interested in this?" Sure, Jessica made it clear she wasn't, but they just automatically assume that I'm not. Jessica and I are absolutely nothing alike, and they know that. But apparently only Dalton has faith in me, which is scary—but it's either that or he's staying on my bed for another reason, which is something I don't want to even consider, so I'll just stay hopeful that it's the first one.

Neil's hand stopped as it reached for the doorknob, and he turned back to her in surprise. "I just—"

"Don't you dare make any assumptions about me, Perry," I reprimand, a smile slowly growing on my face. "I'm in."

The boys at the door all grin in response, and Neil says quietly, "Excellent. I think it's time for bed now, though. Come on, Charlie," as he opens the door.

I look back toward my bed to see that Dalton is still laying there. That stupid smirk-grin-thing is on his face, showing off all his perfectly straight teeth. "Actually," he says, and he's using that stupid smirk-voice of his (a little bit difficult to explain, but I guess I can just say that it's the voice he uses whilst smirking and is therefore his 'smirk-voice'), "I was thinking of staying here for a little while."

I roll my eyes at that. "Get out," I whisper—as maliciously as I can while I'm whispering. "You've been in my room too many times for comfort, so I think it's time you leave and never come back, Dalton."

But his face doesn't even falter. God, I think his grin actually increases, something I didn't know could be possible until now. "Touchy, touchy, Irish. It's not like I'm going to hurt you," he laughs back.

"Oh, I'm not scared of you and I never will be. It's not like I'm completely helpless, anyway. I can defend myself if I have to," I reply, moving slowly toward my bed.

A moment later, I'm standing over him, and I'm suddenly happy that I stole some of my brother's clothes because I certainly wouldn't want to be wearing a nightgown in front of _him_, even if it's one that covers me up entirely. He still smirks at the view, though, and says, "I don't doubt that in the least."

"Charlie," groans Pitts as he hesitates at the door. I glance over and realize that all the other boys have already left the room to go to bed.

"Nuwanda," he corrects from my bed, still grinning. "I'll be there soon. You better hurry up. Don't want to get caught."

"You're the one that'll probably get caught," he responds with a slight shrug.

"Yeah, but I'm used to it," adds Dalton as Pitts leaves, closing the door behind him.

He looks up at me as the door shuts, and I look straight back at him. For a moment, we just stare at each other like we're in some competition. I know I'm glaring at him, trying to convince him to get off my bed and leave the room, but he's looking at me like I'm some circus animal or something. It's like I'm some sort of entertainment—he's still got that damn grin on his face and it doesn't seem like it'll be going away any time soon. But there's just something else about it that I can't place. It's not just amusement, and it's bugging me endlessly. God, the more I get to know him, the more I'm confused… and, the longer he looks at me like that, the less I can concentrate on forming any words I might want to say.

And, then, the squeaks of Jessica moving on her bed allow me to think properly. I glance back to see her smiling there. It's that same smile she had yesterday—well, day before yesterday, technically—when she wouldn't tell me that damn secret of hers. I really damn well hate that girl—all right, I really don't, but, as I spend more time with her, it just makes me _want_ to hate her.

As I hear the sounds of my own bed, I turn back, hopeful that he's getting up to leave, but, squashing all those wishes, I feel hands snake around my waist and pull me down on the bed beside him. My legs are hanging off the side, but his arms are still around me, keeping me on the edge but securely held down. Well, this is just disgusting and slightly but not exactly humiliating.

And he's just looking down at me now with that damn mischievous twinkle in his eyes like he's just tricked me or something. "I thought you said you'd never get on a bed with me," he smirks. So that's what's with the twinkle! Damn him!

"I meant deliberately," I snap back and try to pry his hands away from me but it's fruitless.

"You didn't say 'deliberately'."

"I thought you were smart enough to know," I argue back, still concentrating on removing any part of his body that is touching mine. "I'm sorry that I don't lack enough faith in your intelligence." I have to admit that I get a little frightened when I'm being held down by someone. I'm pretty sure that he wouldn't ever intentionally hurt me (well, unless he were extremely angry, but I still don't think he would), but not being able to move makes my breathing short and fast. If I'd relax, I'd be fine, but that takes a lot of concentration and usually it's over before then. "Now let go of me now, Dalton!" but I think I said that a bit too loudly.

"Listen to me, Irish," he whispers to me, making sure that Jessica can't hear, "and listen well." From his next words, I can tell that he's set on a little revenge for the last time we were this close at lunch.

My hands stop prying at his but remain in the same spot. He's still holding me down, but I'm not really scared anymore… just a little curious as to what he's going to say. All right, I'm still a little bit afraid, but it's enough to make me stop moving. My breath is still irregular, though. "What?" I snarl quietly, a sneer quite present on my face.

He's looking down at me with a look in his eyes that says he means business, which may sound a bit odd, but I'm rather keen on what he'll say, anyway. "I'm afraid, dearest Irish," he begins with all seriousness, "that, if you ever thought that I _want_ you, you're greatly mistaken. I'm not that desperate… but I'm not making any guarantees about the future. So let me tell you this one thing before I go: I don't believe your empty threats, and, as proof, remember _this_."

I inhale sharply as he hurriedly grazes his lips against mine in an almost chaste (but that's not exactly the right word because, come on, it's _Dalton_ here!) kiss. But it's so short that I can hardly call it a kiss. Almost as soon as it started, I realize he's saying, "Good night, ladies," and already opening the door to leave.

I have to admit I'm breathless—but that's not because it was spectacular or anything like that because it most certainly wasn't. It's because I'm surprised. Sure, there's a lot that Dalton could say or do that wouldn't surprise me just because he's so… weird, but this was not on my mental list of 'Things Dalton Could Say or Do That Would Not Surprise Me'—of course, now I need to actually make that list.

But, I wonder, how did he feel when I did (practically) the same thing to him? Was he surprised? Was he intrigued? Was he scared? Was he impressed? I don't know, but I most certainly do wonder. Sure, I didn't kiss or even barely touch my lips to his, but it must have had some sort of effect on him… somehow.

I have to admit, he's more daring than I am. I suppose what I did was a bit daring, but a kiss is so much more intimate. Yeah, it wasn't much of a kiss—in fact, I'm not convinced that it even was a kiss at all—but… I don't know what I'm trying to even say here. God, sometimes my thoughts don't even make any sense.

Well, I'm not going to lie. He is a charmer. But he's too… I'm thinking 'fast', but, at the same time, 'horny' seems to fit as well. He says he doesn't 'want' me, but I'm not sure what that means—or even if he was being truthful when he said it.

But why would he lie? Make me think that I'm safe and then strike while the iron is hot? Actually, that analogy doesn't work very well there, but it's the general gist of it, I guess… but it isn't really. That could be what he's doing, though, but that doesn't really seem like a very Charlie Dalton sort of thing. He's so forward that anything like that would just be wrong coming from him, but maybe that's exactly why he's doing it (_if_ he's doing it, mind you).

I take a deep breath, thankful that he's not holding me down anymore, and sit up. Across the room, Jessica is lying on her bed and pretending to be asleep. Oh, I know she's awake. She was listening to the whole thing, but she probably couldn't hear what he said before he 'kissed' me. I wonder, did she see that? Or were her eyes closed at the time? God, I hope they were closed.

Then, I realize why she's pretending to be asleep. "This is exactly what we were afraid of!" The voice breaks me away from my thoughts, and I look toward the source: the door that's still open, Dalton standing barely outside of the room, and the teacher-guy just beyond him that I can barely see. Shit. He looks straight at me and says, "Both of you, come with me." Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

Still a little dazed, I get up off my bed and move slowly toward the door, only vaguely aware of what's going on. Only a short moment later, both Dalton and I are inside the man's own little quarters, which are nearby so that he make sure all the girls are in bed. I'm not exactly keen on having a male teacher watching over us while we all sleep, but I'm pretty sure he's not a pedophile so we're all probably safe.

Somehow, this man knows both our names, even though I don't know his. After all, he does teach a class I've never taken here. "Mr. Dalton, can you please tell me what exactly you were doing in Miss O'Brien's dormitory?" he demands.

Beside me, Dalton hesitates, trying to come up with some sort of explanation (false, of course) that could justify the act of him being out of bed without causing trouble for the Dead Poets Society. I doubt there is some sort of reasonable excuse. "We were studying before bed," he says suavely, like it's the absolute truth, "and fell asleep after our work was done."

"A likely story," the teacher snaps disbelievingly. He, then, adds the explanation for his obvious displeasure at Dalton's original response: "I know for certain that all students were in their dormitories before lights out. Now, please tell me what you were actually doing in Miss O'Brien's dormitory."

I interrupt before he tries again, not wanting him to ruin us. Besides, if he's going to bring me down with him, which I have to admit is what I deserve as I was out of bed same as him, I want to go down on my own, not a product of his error. "Sir," I say almost sadly, "I didn't want to tell you this, but—"

"It was my fault," interjects Dalton, sending me a short glare that tells me to shut up. I'm a bit curious about the excuse he's about to give, especially after his little introduction there, but I'm not sure whether I'll like it or not. "I wasn't feeling well, so I decided to get some fresh air. I let my feet lead me, sir, and I ended up at, uh, Miss O'Brien's door. I woke her up, sir. She had absolutely nothing to do with this. In fact, she wanted to fetch Dr. Hager to make sure I was all right, but I was feeling much better so I decided to go back to bed. I was just leaving when you passed by, sir."

Somehow, I get the feeling he's never sucked up to a teacher so much in his entire life, and that just makes me wonder why he even did it to begin with. I mean, I know that he had to come up with something, but it didn't have to protect me. That was awfully… chivalrous of him—and weird. I don't like it one bit.

"Is that true, Miss O'Brien?" the teacher asks, turning on me.

And, quite suddenly, I'm put in the spotlight, and I don't know what to say or do or anything, so I just say the first thing that pops into my head at the moment (hmm, just like Mr. Keating told us to do). "Yes, sir," I say quietly, stealing a short glance at Dalton, "it is, as far as I know—after all, I was only present for part of it."

The teacher-guy seems pleased by my apprehensive acquiescence. "Very well," says Mr. Whatever-His-Name-Is. "Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Dalton. I know that how often you choose to be honest is minimal, and I must thank you for that. However, Dalton, you must still receive demerits. Miss O'Brien, because of your small part in this, I shall let this one time slide." He glances between us half-suspiciously before saying, "O'Brien, bed. Dalton, as I'm not sure I can trust you to get there on your own, despite your extravagant words, I shall escort you to your dormitory myself."

As I move to the door, I want to thank him, but I don't know how I could now. It'd be a bit obvious that he had lied (at least about my part in it) if I said anything to him now, I guess it'll have to wait until later. But he'll probably just be his normal prick self next time I see him, so all I so is smile at him before returning to my room.

Besides, it's not like I'd want to do anything in return. I'm not sure I'd be able to trust him with choosing how I return the favor. So I suppose I'll have to decide something on my own if I'm to do anything for him, which I doubt I will. One act of kindness does not repay multiple, uncivilized, pompous, perverted acts of annoyingness, after all. But I suppose, in the least, I can forgive him for whatever he did in my dormitory earlier tonight—well, not forgive, but forget, act like it never happened. Simple and probably effective.

His response to my smile is just his normal smirk, which doesn't surprise me in the least. He tends to have clashing personalities or something. He annoys me—on purpose, too. He tries to woo me, which I do know that he has been doing whether he admits it or not. Then, he says that he doesn't want me at all. And, _then_, he half-kisses me—that's what we'll call it because I still can't deem it to be an _actual_ kiss. But I'm supposed to be forgetting that, aren't I?

Anyway, he makes absolutely no sense, but I do get the feeling that he meant what he said before. I don't quite understand how he can say he doesn't want me and yet still tries to get me, but he's a boy so there are many possible reasons. I just can't keep track of all of them. I'm not sure how that all makes sense, but it's true as far as I can tell. It's not like it really matters, though. After all, it's just Dalton.

I roll my eyes at him and depart, leaving him alone with the teacher. Yes, I'm sure they'll have lots of fun (just a _little_ bit sarcastic there, I promise). And, not very long later, I reach my dormitory and slip back inside. With all of tonight's excitements, I'm ready to go to sleep. At least tomorrow's a Saturday, though, because I doubt I'd be able to handle going to classes after so little sleep.

Jessica seems to have a different plan, though, when I return, closing the door behind me and then collapsing on my bed. "Is there something you're not telling me, Moira?" she asks happily, no longer pretending to be asleep. She's got that same grin on her face that says she knows something I don't and she's excited about it.

"Yes," I reply tiredly, "but that's only because I'm not speaking to you, remember?" It's true, but, while saying that to her informs her if she had forgotten, it's contradictory, which is a bit frustrating. There's no way of reminding her, though, that doesn't contradict, now is there? Well, maybe if I were writing, but that doesn't have the same effect I was hoping for.

"You just did," she argues. Duh! Isn't that what I was just saying in my head? Only I said it more poetically. I mean, all she says is, 'You just did,' while I said (er, thought), 'It's true, but, while saying that to her informs her if she had forgotten, it's contradictory.' Why I had to repeat both of those, I don't know.

In all honesty, I jadedly say, "What do you want, Jessica? Haven't I made it clear that I'm still upset?" I inhale deeply and heave a sigh. "It's time to sleep," I add quietly. "We should sleep."

She appears a bit saddened by my words and responds, "Yes, I suppose you're right. I am sorry, Moira. I don't want you to be angry with me, but I don't know what I can say or do to make you feel better." Well, I have to admit, she is trying. She's not very good at it, now is she?

At that, I can't help but feel sorry for her. Sure, I'm still angry, but I shouldn't really be so nasty to her. I mean, she's just being who she is, and I shouldn't persecute her for that. Still, I really wish that she wouldn't be so flippant. I guess I'll just have to learn to deal with it, especially since we'll be sharing the same dormitory for the rest of the school year. Exciting… or not.

I push myself up onto my elbows and say to her after a while, "Look, Jessica, I'm sorry. I've been rather awful to you. I do that when I'm angry, but I apologize." I glance over and note that there's a sparkle in her eyes again—she's excited. "However," I add quickly before she can speak, "let it be known that, if you're determined to say anything unsound that has to do with Dalton, I'm afraid I'll have to be short-tempered with you again."

She nods vigorously from across the room, and, as her mouth opens, I half regret what I just said. I can't understand half of what she says, only hearing bits and pieces like, "…I promise I won't…" and, "…I'm so, so, so sorry!". One of my glares silences her, though, and she finally agrees to go to sleep—and thank God, too! That girl is practically verifiably insane.

I don't know why I put up with her… and yet I still do things like I just did. She doesn't really have any other friends, though. Sure, she spends time with the guys, but that's only because of me. And she's not really into poetry like all of them are—like I am. If she hadn't met me first, though, would she be in the same sort of position? Would she have not made any friends at all? Or would she have hung out with the other girls more and become friends with them? I have absolutely no idea, and I doubt I'll ever really know… so what's the point of wondering in the first place?

God, I'm so tired, though—too tired to think about all of this, at least. With a sigh of resignation, I collapse back onto my belly wearily, ready to fall into a long-awaited slumber. But something catches my attention as I nuzzle my face into my soft pillow, and I breathe in deep the comforting smell there before allowing myself to drift away into my dreams.

* * *

_Well, there's another chapter. I've already started on the next one, but I won't be able to write very much within the next week because my family and I are going to Iowa for a family reunion. It's not the bad kind, though, because I actually know most of the people there. It'll be fun, but I certainly won't have much time to write--or have access to a computer to type/write or connect to the internet to post. So my next chapter probably won't be up for a week and a half. That's an approximation, so it could be less than that._

_Thank you all for reading. You're splendid. Please leave me a review._

_Anatui_


	7. Note to Self

_Chapter 7 – Note to Self._ (Charlie's POV)

All right, I can still barely believe that I did that. Sure, I did it on purpose, but I didn't mean to do it. Does that even make any sense, though? Ah, hell, I don't know. I give up trying to figure out the inner workings of my own twisted brain. Goddamn subconscious plots. My own brain is out to get me! But, seriously, how many people in the world can boast that?

What I said was true, though, and I don't regret my actions. I'm sure that some of her threats aren't empty, but I'm also sure that certain ones are. I don't blame her for it, though. Everybody makes empty threats—I've even make some. It's not like it's the end of the world or anything like that. And I most definitely _don't_ want her. I don't, I swear! Haven't I said that before now? I swear I have! Anyway, enough swearing. Yes, I have decided to woo her, but it's not because I want her. It isn't—not at all!

And I have to make sure she calls me Nuwanda, too, because, if she doesn't call me that, there's really no point to it. Although, Pitts did say, "I doubt he'd be able to convince them all to have sex with a guy who calls himself Nuwanda." So, technically, _she_ doesn't have to call me that, but I need her to at least acknowledge the fact that I am Nuwanda, and the easiest way to completely recognize that is for her to call me that. Makes sense, doesn't it? I'm a genius, aren't I? Yes, I really am. So Pittsie's little declaration there is reason one.

Reason two is that I want to see Cameron's face when I tell him. God, it'd be hilarious. Someone remind me to have a camera at that time so that I can remember it from now until the very last day of my life. Seriously, when I'm old and grey-haired (or white—whatever the Fates decide), I want to be able to look at that picture and say, "Ha-ha, take that, Cameron, you (insert lovely, amusing, wonderful, foul word(s) here)!"

But, God, did you see her face?! Well, no, of course you didn't. But I did. God, it was spectacular! Hilarious? You bet your ass it was (not sure why you would, though). Startled? She most definitely was, and I have to say that it was the most amusing thing I've seen in so long. Breathless? She was, but I tend to have that effect on girls… even when I barely even do anything.

This just makes me wonder, though, if this is how she felt before. I have to admit I am rather proud of what I did. I mean, it's not much to be really proud of, but I just am. And it's not so much what I did that I'm proud of—more like her reaction. That girl will forever amuse me. When she's normal (something I don't see that often, mind you), her eyes are just like any other eyes. But, when she's angry, her eyes are like fire, and, when she's startled, it's like they're completely empty, like nothing is even there, like she can't even think because of it. I'd never thought eyes could change like that until I met her.

Now that I think about it, I realize our roles were pretty much switched. Before, she was the aggressor and I was the victim, but just now I was the aggressor and she was the victim. Quite a difference, eh? Definitely.

And the fact that I'm still thinking about this means what? I don't know, but I should be paying attention in class, shouldn't I? Especially since this is my favorite class. And also especially since it's been two and a half days since that happened. It's Monday, too, which means I should at least be trying to get into the habit of the normal school week.

I force myself to pay attention when I hear Captain speaking again. One of the other students just finished reading his favorite poem, and Mr. Keating thanks him before saying, "Miss Nesbit, if you please," and gesturing toward the front of the classroom.

I glance over at the girl with her shoulder-length, black hair and extremely pale skin as she makes her way to stand right in front of the Captain's desk. She doesn't look up at all, completely ignoring the fact that anyone is sitting, ready to listen to the poem she reads. Deftly, she flips open her book to the marked page and begins to read I quite easily recognize as one written by Edgar Allen Poe. It's called "Spirits of the Dead", one I've always liked well enough but never greatly cared for. The way she reads it, though, is actually rather creepy. It's like she believes it completely and cherishes it like the Bible. Maybe she does, actually. Sure, I like Poe well enough, but he's not really my cup of tea (in fact, I don't even like tea that much—I prefer some sort of alcohol… or maybe orange juice, but that's not important in the least). Hmm, okay, note to self: remember that Nesbit is eerily depressing and that self should stay away from her.

"_Thy soul shall find itself alone  
_'_Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;  
__Not one, of all the crowd to pry  
__Into thine hour of secrecy._

"_Be silent in that solitude,  
__Which is not loneliness—for then  
__The spirits of the dead, who stood  
__In life before thee, are again  
__In death around thee, and their will  
__Shall overshadow thee; be still._

"_The night, though clear, shall frown,  
__And the stars shall not look down  
__From their high thrones in the Heaven  
__With light like hope to mortals given,  
__But their red orbs, without beam,  
__To thy weariness shall seem  
__As a burning and a fever  
__Which would cling to thee for ever._

"_Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,  
__Now are visions ne'er to vanish;  
__From thy spirit shall they pass  
__No more, like dew-drop from the grass._

"_The breeze, the breath of God, is still,  
__And the mist upon the hill  
__Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,  
__Is a symbol and a token.  
__How it hangs upon the trees,  
__A mystery of mysteries!_"

At least she was original enough to not read "The Raven"—that's the one that everyone knows. It'd be kind of cliché if she had read it. Not that it really matters whether some girl I've never even spoken to is cliché or not. Damn, I don't even know her first name. Does anyone here, though? I've never even seen her talk to anyone other than the teachers.

That rather makes me wonder who she is. You know (Well, obviously you don't, because why would I tell you if you did? It'd be a bit boring, if you ask me, which you won't.), sometimes I just wonder about other people… what it'd be like if, when we were younger or something, I'd become friends with them instead of the friends I have now. But that just makes me wonder what it'd be like if Neil and Knox and Pittsie and Meeks and Todd weren't even my friends at all.

It's hard to imagine all my memories gone and replaced with different ones. It's a funny thing to think that everything around us isn't manipulated by just ourselves but also the people we spend time with. For instance, if my parents had been different, I would be different. But they wouldn't be different because then other people around _them_ would have to have been different—and people around _those_ people. It's one huge cycle, not necessarily repeating but it's still the same thing for ever and ever. Things are the way they are because that's what we chose it to be, and we chose it to be that way because whatever we did goes along with us and what we believe, but we believe that because we were changed because of other people and their beliefs.

If I had had other friends and memories, how would I be changed, though? Would I be the same Charlie Dalton that everyone knows today? I doubt it. But would it go so far as to strip me of my love for breaking rules? Where did I get that, though? Are all personality traits because of nurture? Or are some just from nature as well? To tell the truth, I don't want it to be all from nurture. I wasn't exactly nurtured myself, so does that mean I'll be the same way to my own children (don't laugh!—I might actually have some someday)?

So this girl, Nesbit—why is she quiet and shy? Is it because she never had parents that talked to her? Or is it because everyone around her talked too much? It's strange that, sometimes, one thing can cause a person to be the exact opposite but it can also cause the person to be exactly the same, isn't it?

And now I'm thinking too deeply, and it's really rather awkward. This is the point of the story (since when are my life and my thoughts a story, though?) where you laugh and think that the author (hey, if anybody's going to be writing my story, it's me!) wrote me very out of character. But who said I don't have a deep side—well, other than Neil that one time we talking on the telephone a couple weeks ago? If there's anybody that's to determine the fact, it's me, considering I _am_ me—something I'm sure you've already noticed considering you're either reading or listening to this (don't really know why you would—it's not like you can see me and my charming self on paper, after all). Now I'm getting all defensive, too! See what you're doing to me? I don't like it, so just shut up and continue. You're really pissing me off.

You know (again with the damn second person!), I think I'm going crazy. I keep talking to you, but I'm not sure if you even exist. Is it all in my head? Am I just talking to myself? To tell the truth, I wouldn't be surprised. What's so wrong with talking to myself, anyway? It's not like I'm really telling myself to do things that are bad, like blow up a building or something. I'm not causing any harm. I'm just sitting here in the middle of class when I should be paying attention and thinking. Nothing bad about that. Actually, I think several people would find the fact that I'm not paying attention a bad thing, but, you see, I don't have an issue with that. It feels like a completely sensible thing to do, but I am Charlie Dalton. I never pay attention during class. Well, except English. And, look at that, I'm in English class. So, again, why am I not paying attention? Oh yeah, I'm talking—er, thinking—to myself.

Hmm, if someone spoke to me, would I just keep on thinking and not hear a word they said? Or would I wake up to reality? I'd like to test that… but how can I tell someone to try to catch my attention without already having my attention caught? I'd be expecting it, so it wouldn't be like a surprise or anything. I could wait for someone to try to catch my attention, but eventually I'll wake up from this (whatever it is) and realize that the bell rang or something of the like. So would it really be because the person spoke to me? Or would it be because I willed myself to pay attention just at that exact moment?

Oh my God! Shut up, brain! Note to self: don't go crazy, stop rambling at self, and pay attention to class like the good, non-crazy (er, meaning 'sane') person that self actually is, even if self is really trying to hide it.

I will myself to look at the front of the room to see who's up there now. Just in time to see Irish make her way up to where Nesbit had been standing just moments (or hours, I'm not sure) ago. She doesn't look nervous or anything like that. She looks fairly normal ('normal', here, meaning 'like she normally looks when she's not yelling at me', and not the 'normal' meaning 'like she normally looks when I see her') with one of her thick volumes of poetry in her hands as she begins to read. Her voice is quite heavily accented when she reads, more so than when she talks normally, though I'm not sure why that is. And she reads her poem, one I've never heard before, like it's a treasure to be cherished and should be taken to the heart—similar, in a way, to how Nesbit read hers before but different at the same time.

"_The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,  
__The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,  
__The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,  
__And the highwayman came riding-  
__Riding-riding-  
__The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door._

"_He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,  
__A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;  
__They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!  
__And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,  
__His pistol butts a-twinkle,  
__His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky._

"_Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,  
__And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;  
__He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there  
__But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,  
__Bess, the landlord's daughter,  
__Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair._

"_And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked  
__Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;  
__His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,  
__But he loved the landlord's daughter,  
__The landlord's red-lipped daughter,  
__Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-_

"'_One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,  
__But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;  
__Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,  
__Then look for me by moonlight,  
__Watch for me by moonlight,  
__I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.'_

"_He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,  
__But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand  
__As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;  
__And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,  
__(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)  
__Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West._

"_He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;  
__And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,  
__When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,  
__A red-coat troop came marching-  
__Marching-marching-  
__King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door._

"_They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,  
__But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;  
__Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!  
__There was death at every window;  
__And hell at one dark window;  
__For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that __he__ would ride._

"_They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;  
__They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!  
_'_Now keep good watch' and they kissed her.  
__She heard the dead man say-  
__'Look for me by moonlight;  
__Watch for me by moonlight;  
__I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!'_

"_She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!  
__She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!  
__They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,  
__Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,  
__Cold, on the stroke of midnight,  
__The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!_

"_The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!  
__Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,  
__She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;  
__For the road lay bare in the moonlight;  
__Blank and bare in the moonlight;  
__And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain._

"_Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot!__ Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;  
__Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot__, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?  
__Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,  
__The highwayman came riding,  
__Riding, riding!  
__The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!_

"_Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!  
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!  
__Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,  
__Then her finger moved in the moonlight,  
__Her musket shattered the moonlight,  
__Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death._

"_He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood  
__Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!  
__Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear  
__How Bess, the landlord's daughter,  
__The landlord's black-eyed daughter,  
__Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there._

"_Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,  
__With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!  
__Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,  
__When they shot him down on the highway,  
__Down like a dog on the highway,  
__And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat._

"_And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,  
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,  
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,  
A highwayman comes riding-  
Riding-riding-  
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door._

"_Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,  
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;  
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there  
__But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,  
__Bess, the landlord's daughter,  
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair._"

Hmm. Well, that's a bit depressing. Why the hell would she read _that_? Some guy falls in love with a girl. He leaves, promising to come back for her. Guys come and take her prisoner. When he comes back for her, she kills herself as a warning to save his life. He leaves, not knowing where the shot came from or who fired it or anything of the like, but, when he finds out what happened, he goes back and gets himself killed. For one thing, what an idiot! And, secondly, how could that be her favorite poem? I guess it shows that the highwayman and Bess's love for each other is strong enough to die for each other, but does it have to do it like that? Yeah, so I'm not one for depressing things like that? That makes me wonder, though, if that's her fantasy romance. Does she want to die for the man she falls in love with (if she ever does)? Or would this just be saying that she would if ever the situation would arise? Ah, hell, I give up analyzing the anomaly that is Moira O'Brien (hah, still remember your name, Irish, even if I never really use it). She's too damn confusing.

"Thank you, Miss O'Brien," says Captain with a smile from where he stands against the wall on the left side of the classroom as Irish returns to her own seat. "'The Highwayman' by Alfred Noyes. A beautiful piece. Now, who will be next?" And, then, without warning, he volunteers Knox.

Hesitantly, probably remembering the first time he read a poem in front of the class, he makes his way up to the front of the classroom to recite what I instantly recognize as "La Vita Nuova" by Dante Alighieri. Hmm, probably reminds him a Chris. God, he's far too in love with her. To tell the truth, it's actually getting rather annoying. I glance around as the words echo throughout the room and half-smirk at the looks on everyone's faces. No one seems surprised by this at all.

"_In that book which is  
__My memory…  
__On the first page  
__That is the chapter when  
__I first met you  
__Appear the words…  
__Here begins a new life._"

Sweet and short, I guess. Romantic and would probably get girls to fall in love immediately, but it's not my style. Knox has the sort of poetry style that just begs for Chris to love him because he's so embarrassingly adorable—yeah, he's my best friend, but I shouldn't lie. I like to think of myself as classier than that… or just hornier. Either way. I prefer more… er, sensual poetry.

Besides, poems like the one he just read just overdo it. Knoxious is the sort of person that looks for long-lasting relationships full of love. I, on the other hand, am the sort of person that looks for flings and no relationships at all—no love, nothing substantial, and _definitely_ nothing long-lasting. Too much commitment… and I'm not very good about that sort of thing. Commitment just isn't my sort of thing. Hmm, note to self: remember that commitment is bad for self's health and virility.

When Knox finishes, I give off a whistle of what I hope to be approval. I certainly don't want him thinking that I now have a problem with him and Chris. Sure, it's annoying, but he's happy, so who am I to judge? …Well, other than his best friend. I've met the girl a couple times, so I know she's nice and he really likes her, but he won't stop talking about her—all right, I take that back. He doesn't talk about her that much overall, but he still talks about her just as much as he did before she broke up with Chet and started dating him.

On the far right side of the room, I hear a rather loud, "Aww!" and grimace at the sound. Now I remember why I don't date girls. Almost every single one I know is either the kind that's so girly that she doesn't shut up about her hair or other stupid, ditzy things… or else she's just one of the guys and plays sports and acts like a normal boy. Neither of those are all that appealing for a full-fledged relationship.

Note to self: if ever self does marry, self must find suitable girl preferably of proper age that is neither stupid nor refuses to act like a girl nor too ditzy to be real nor a genius like Meeks (that's almost too much to handle); self must find girl that is unlike all others… or self must suffer life alone, which self would actually not mind all that much. Hmm, self will have a great choice to make. And now self should stop talking in third person and using 'self' instead of 'Charlie' or 'Nuwanda'.

I watch as several other boys read their poems. James reads one by Shelley, and Hopkins reads something else that I don't really recognize. I like James's one, but Hopkins's doesn't sound all that interesting. Maybe I'm just a little biased, though, because I already know that I like Shelley. I'm certainly not biased because I like James more than Hopkins, though. Honestly, I like Hopkins more. Nathanial James always seemed like a bit of a prissy, stuck-up, rich kid—well, he is, but we're all rich so it's not like that really makes much of a difference. So that doesn't matter.

I glance up at the clock on the wall to see how much time we have left in class. Sure, I like this class, but I really don't want to be in any class at all right now. I'm just… extremely tired for some reason. I've no idea why. Not long before the bell's about to ring, Captain calls out my name, asking me to read my own favorite poem.

I hesitate for but a moment before making my way toward the front of the classroom with a small piece of crumpled paper that I tore out of one of the library books. Before I begin to read, I clear my throat importantly and say in a 'mature' voice, "I must warn you that this is not my favorite poem, but, for reasons beyond my control, I cannot read that one. This is the one I settled for:

"_Ah, God, the way your little finger moved  
__As you thrust a bare arm backward  
__And made play with your hair  
__And a comb, a silly gilt comb  
__Ah, God—that I should suffer  
__Because of the way a little finger moved._"

It really is a wonderful poem. "The Way Your Little Finger Moved" by Stephen Crane. And it's completely innocent in its loving, little way… but not so much how I just read it. In fact, before just now, I doubt that it could have been called perverted in any way at all. Well, not any more. I definitely just put a stop to that.

Satisfied, I saunter back to my chair, sending Irish a short meaningful glance. I'm quite sure she understands what I mean by that considering she scowls and a small blush tinges her cheeks—and I know exactly what crosses her mind, what she's remembering. After I plop down in my seat, I glance back to her, still glaring furiously at me, and wink, causing her to look away and her scowl to widen.

"Thank you, Mr. Dalton," says Mr. Keating with a small smile, "for that interesting interpretation on Stephen Crane's poem."

I laugh lightly at that and say, "Thank you, Captain," just before the bell rings and everyone begins to get up to leave and go to our next class.

_

* * *

_

_Well, this chapter is quite shorter than most of the others, but the poems are fun so you should read and enjoy them if you haven't already. __Hmm, I think I quite enjoyed this chapter nonetheless, especially with Charlie's almost-insane thought processes._

_Please leave me a review!_

_Anatui_


	8. Creepy

_Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry! I'm so sorry for taking so long to update this, but I finally finished it last night around midnight, so here it finally is. It's actually the shortest of the chapters so far, but I didn't really know what was going to happen in it for the last half of the chapter. But I know what's going to happen in the next chapter, so no worries about that. It'll probably come out a lot more quickly than this one did. Again, sorry. Enjoy._

_Anatui_

* * *

_Chapter 8 – Creepy. (Moira's POV)_

All right, so I haven't been thinking a lot lately—I haven't really had much time to think, honestly. I've never had so many science experiments or mathematics book problems to do in my entire life. All I've done for the past two weeks is schoolwork and lose sleep. Sounds extremely fun, huh? Or not.

Sometimes, I just want to rip my hair out… or _someone_'s hair. Ooh, ripping out someone's hair sounds really fun. Now, who has the worst hair here so that I can rip it out? Hmm, Ricky's hair is pretty stupid looking—why does he have to have it cut like that, anyway? It makes him look prissy, which he is, but he shouldn't have his hair showing it off to the entire world. But who else has horrible hair? Ricky's couldn't possibly be the worst here. Hmm, not Meeks—his hair is actually rather adorable. Neil's is fine. Todd's is fine. Pitts's is all right—definitely not as bad as Ricky's, anyway. And Knox's hair is probably the most normal boy's cut I've seen while here.

That's everybody because all the other humans here have normal, boring hair. Besides, it's more fun if I'm ripping out a friend's hair. But, then again, ripping out hair would cause pain, in which case Charlie Dalton is a very worthy candidate. Hmm, he might assault me in some way, though, if I do rip out his hair. From everything I've seen, he's really got a thing for his hair. Of course, so does Ricky. And I don't understand why. I hate both of their hairstyles! They're both so… prissy—there's that stupid word again, but it's true and you know it!

I heave a deep sigh and finally decide to get out of bed. After all, Jessica's not even in the room anymore, which usually means she's at breakfast. Hmm, I wonder why she didn't wake me up. While I'm dressing, I glance at the clock on my desk and—holy Mary, Vishnu, and Shiva! I'm fucking late to class already! I'm just so glad this is Friday and I can sleep in tomorrow.

I rush out of my dormitory, bag flapping at my side, clothes barely on correctly, and my shoes still not on my feet, but I hurry to put them on as I run toward my science class, hoping that our stupid teacher, whose name I seriously can't remember, hasn't realized I'm not there. God, I'm going to fucking _kill_ Jessica!

By the time I reach the classroom, I've got my shoes on and my shirt is buttoned correctly, but I'm pretty sure my face is tinged pink with exertion. I open the door as quietly as I can, but—of course!—everyone notices, and the teacher, Mr. Something, sends me a disapproving look before issuing me demerits. Great. Not like it's much of a surprise, though. What else would I get? A Tootsie roll?

I send Jessica a glare as I sit down in the only open seat, which isn't my regular one. Luckily, it's right beside Knox, who kindly indicates the correct page in our textbook, and I flip to it, sending him a thankful smile. I'm rather growing to like that boy. Very nice. I can see why this girl, Chris, would go for him. He's sweet. And he definitely deserves a nice girl. I just hope she's good for him.

Attempting to focus on my lesson, I only recognize the sounds of the squeaky chair behind me for what it is when I hear a voice whisper in my ear but moments later. However, it doesn't take me even a second to recognize the voice that speaks to me, even though I'm startled and I can only just hear it properly. "You're late."

Before Dalton can say anything more, I savagely whisper back, barely turning my head toward him, "Oh, really? I hadn't noticed." Ah, good, old sarcasm, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways… one, two, three…. And then I lose enthusiasm for my mockery of that stupid love poem. All right, it's a good poem, but I've never cared for love poems. They're too… fluffy. And happy. Life isn't that happy. Seriously.

"You're not supposed to be late," he whispers again. What the hell? Has he suddenly turned into Little Miss Do-gooder? Or is he just making an exception for me? Hmm, honestly, probably the second one. I don't think I'd ever be able to believe Charlie Dalton as a do-gooder… or a girl. It's just _wrong_!

"What do you care?" I snap back quietly.

"Who said anything about me caring?"

I scowl at that. Of course he doesn't care. I have yet to find a thing that Dalton actually cares about…. All right, that's definitely a lie. There's always his friends, which I can tell he cares about. And, let us not forget, the hair. He really loves that hair. But, anyway, I have yet to find anything else that he really cares about. Not that I care about what he cares about—well, I do care about his friends because they're now also my friends, but I meant that I don't care that he cares about them not about them specifically. If that makes much sense.

"What do you want, Dalton?" I snarl, not caring that I'm avoiding the question and he knows it. Hmm, I never thought I could snarl before. Well, I just proved me wrong. "What d'you want?"

"Who said I want anything? Even from you." That little… Wait a minute! Isn't the line supposed to be '_especially_ from you' and not '_even_ from you'? Why the change? What the hell does that even mean?

"Then why are you even talking to me?"

He smirks at that, like he's sharing some secret joke with… himself, I guess—who else would he have to laugh with? "Take a wild guess," he challenges, allowing the smirk to grow into something even more devious. Okay, creepy.

"To annoy me?" I suggest in slight amusement, but I hide any traces of a smile quite easily. There's no way I'll ever want him to know that he can make me laugh, even if it's a rarity.

He flashes me a grin, which I can barely see in my peripheral vision, and moves back into his chair. Ah, peace.

Without him hounding me—or whatever the hell it is he does to me—I'm able to sit up straight and divert all my attention toward the teacher and the lesson. However, when I look up at the teacher, he's staring straight at the two of us. Great. And he's glaring. Even better. I already know what he's going to say before he says it: "Mr. Dalton, Miss O'Brien, demerits. One more word out of either of you, and it's a detention!"

Dalton doesn't seem to mind the teacher's threat, though, because, as soon as Mr. I-Forgot-His-Actual-Name-So-I'll-Just-Call-Him-Joe continues with his lecture and doesn't send either of us even a single glance, he scoots forward in his seat again to whisper in my ear. His mouth is too close to me for comfort. A strange chill runs down my spine, and I'm not sure if that's good or bad—whatever it is, it's weird. His whispering voice sounds like a snake hissing in my ear, only he's forming actual words that merely sound serpentine. That's a bit creepy.

"Of course to annoy you," he hisses in my ear. "Why else would I talk to you so much? Honestly, I have yet to find someone more fun to annoy." Honesty is a new thing to associate with Charlie Dalton, and yet he sounds sincere. What he said is probably true, but that doesn't mean I can trust him any. He's still _him_.

"Well, I'm glad that I can provide some sort of entertainment for you," I whisper back over my shoulder, moving my lips as little as possible and keeping my eyes carefully on Mr. Joe. Certainly wouldn't want him to catch us again. I don't want a detention. Not that I've ever had one before. I don't want to start now, though.

I don't have to be able to see him to tell that he's smirking again as he replies in that sly, serpentine voice, "How many different kinds of entertainment are you willing to participate in?" Heh, I've been waiting for him to say something along those lines. It's no longer a surprise to hear something crude or perverted come out of his mouth. It's natural. Actually, it'd be weird if nothing like that came out of his mouth.

Hmm, if he's going to have fun, though, why shouldn't I? I really don't play with him that much, so it's much more fun because he rarely expects it. With a small smirk of my own, I lean back a little toward him and murmur rather fervently to him, tilting my head to the left so that he can hear quite easily. I feel my hair brush against his face, and a small, devious smile appears on my face. "Meet me on the roof after dinner and we'll find out."

As I look at his face to determine his reaction, I realize he's too close. So as not to appear startled or afraid or anything he might make up that's really total crap but he can say it anyway because I rushed away so quickly, I slowly turn away from him and sit up straight in my seat again. Hah, take that, Mr. Charlie I'm-So-Suave Dalton. Not that it would even hurt his pride or make him the least bit un-suave. Damn, he's too perfect.

Scratch that. 'Perfect' is the wrong word. He's not perfect. Not at all. What I mean is, he's intangible. Nothing seems to touch him. I have yet to see any girl that can make him falter. That time at lunch, I know I did, but that was more because he was startled. It's not quite the same thing, but I guess they're somewhat linked. So I guess I'm the closest any girl has come to taming the beast. And I'm the one that doesn't really want to tame him. That's just complete crap, don't you think? Seriously, if anyone should be able to tame him—he's not really a beast, so I'll stop calling him that—it should be someone like Jessica that isn't completely pissed off by him all the time. Or someone that completely worships him. Of course, that's not the type of person that _can_ tame a beast of any sort. You have to be strong and brave and perseverant. You can't just say, "Oh, you're perfect the way you are!" That's just plain wrong. You have to have the ability to say that you don't like something or that 'the beast' can be a better person if he strives to be so. Perseverance is key.

Amazingly, Dalton doesn't bother me again during the class, and we get away without detentions quite easily. I'm thankful for that. I don't want to try to fend him off and work at the same time. Still, my mind doesn't really seem to help very much during that 'working' time.

Maybe he's at least a little inspiring because I just got an interesting idea for a poem. Even better, it could work for my English assignment that's due… heh, well, it's due in two blocks. Mr. Keating told us to write a poem about something we have strong feelings for, what the feeling is, and why it makes us feel that way. Apparently, this year, we're going to have writing assignments that will help us use our imagination when we're set up with rules. Sounds interesting and intriguing. Could prove quite fun.

Eagerly, I pull out a piece of paper at the end of class and begin to jot down words quickly, allowing them to flow from the end of my pencil like blood from a very large, open cut (fun analogy, huh?). The bell rings, but I barely notice. However, I do notice when Mr. Joe calls out my name for me to stay and talk to him. Hesitantly, I set down my pencil and approach his desk, not sure of what to say whenever he finally accuses me of something I didn't do—at least, I hope I didn't do it.

"Miss O'Brien," he says after glancing around the room to make sure we're alone, "I noticed some rather odd behavior on your part during this class period. I suggest you steer away from Mr. Dalton. He's a bad influence for you."

"Yes, sir," I nod, barely holding back a smile. When he dismisses me, I turn around a grin breaks out across my face as I gather my things and walk out of the room to go to whatever class I have next (I don't really know what classes they are until I get there—my feet just carry me to wherever they know I need to go).

I stop abruptly just beyond the classroom door at the sight of Dalton standing there, waiting for me. Er, a little creepy. "Bad influence?" he asks in amusement.

I ignore him at first and return to the poem I'm attempting to write in the hallways as I walk, but he easily matches his pace with mine and tries to read over my shoulder aloud, "'It's a wonder that such dement'—hey!" I had pulled away the paper to stop him from reading the whole poem.

"No," I reprimand dangerously. "You'll hear it in English, so hold your damn horses, Dalton." I groan before adding, "You of all people will not get any special privileges, especially when it comes to my writing."

He makes a face at that, sticking out his tongue almost seductively. If I didn't already know it was true, I'd guess that he was trying to seduce me. However, I can't help but get the feeling that the way he's going about this all isn't how he would normally seduce someone. Honestly, he's not being very seductive. Mostly, he's just annoying me, which, as I've realized and as he's pointed out, he greatly enjoys. Maybe the 'seduction' is just a plus.

I shrug off his chin and continue writing.

"Are you even watching where you're going?" he asks, his voice annoyingly loud in my ear as we slip through the masses of students.

My teeth clench together, and my hand stops moving. Through gritted teeth, I say brusquely, "No," and then I allow my pencil to move fluidly yet awkwardly again.

He seems indifferent but impressed as he says a noncommittal, "Huh," in response. "How does that work then? You're walking through the halls like… like a ghost, just floating."

"I'm not sure if I should be flattered or annoyed by that," I say more calmly as I pause my writing for another moment. "Haven't you ever heard of peripheral vision, Dalton? It's not like it's really anything new, so you should know what it is."

He makes a face at me, which I can see through my—ooh, guess, and I'll bet you'll get it right! Very good! Peripheral vision, it is. But I don't care what faces he makes at me. He's just being like Charlie Dalton—since he _is_ Charlie Dalton. I just continue writing, trying my best to imagine he isn't walking beside me.

When the bell rings, the poem is nearly finished—but that's what happens when you have an inspiration, isn't it? I must say that I'm quite excited about class. After all, it's only one period away now. I just have to endure our trigonometry class first… except that, for some reason, I'm not in my trigonometry class.

Heh, I look up and glance around the hallway. I'm alone with Dalton out here, and we're still walking slowly. He doesn't seem to mind the fact that we're late for class—and it's all my fault. If I hadn't been so entwined in my poem (about him), we wouldn't have walked so slowly and we wouldn't be late. But it's too late to alter that now.

"Shit," I say quite loudly, and, without a moment's hesitation, he bursts into laughter beside me. "I hate you," I snap at him, narrowing my eyes dangerously.

"Yeah, I know." And he turns away to walk in the opposite direction of the classroom.

"Where're you going?" I call after him in my best loud whisper. "We need to get to class, you idiot!" Like he doesn't know that, but he should be reminded because he appears to have forgotten entirely. "We're gonna get caught out here."

"Yeah," he agrees, still grinning as he glances over his shoulder mid-stride, "especially if you keep up the talking. You'd better hurry up, Irish."

Jackass. I'm sorry. I try not to use foul language, but there are some things a girl just can't stand—and one of those things is Charlie Dalton. Seriously, what a jackass. Unladylike, again, but screw being ladylike. Charlie Dalton doesn't _deserve_ ladylike.

"Where are you going?" I call after him again.

"You want to know? Follow me."

I'd like to say that this is the point where I say, "Shove it up your ass, Dalton," and scurry off to class where we're both _supposed_ to be. (Well, actually, I'd like to say that this never happened, that I never met him, that I was still back at my last school, but, regrettably, I, uh, kinda, maybe, got a little bit expelled—just a bit. But, yeah, I did. So what? So I kneed a guy in a place that isn't really supposed to be kneed. What does that matter anyway? He was the asshole that tried to de-skirt me in the middle of the hall… but it's not like _he_ was expelled. But I still don't have to see him, so, honestly, it's fine here.) But that's not what I did at all.

You guessed it. I followed him.

And he knew I would, too. It's like he knows exactly what makes me tick and what makes me happy or intrigued or sad. But he doesn't do what a guy should do. Instead of being kind and chivalrous, he's a moron that takes advantage of it. He uses everything he's learned about me against me.

It's like he hates me. But I know he doesn't.

Besides, it's not really like he hates me. It's more like he's a child. You know how, in school, the little first graders are all running around and the little boy pulls the little girl's pigtail, calls her names, and puts a frog down her dress? Well, that little boy's him and the girl's me. It's the same thing. He doesn't hate me. He's got a crush on me. And you know what? That's even more infuriating that him hating me—and I don't have a single clue as to why.

I trail behind him for a while as I'm finishing my poem until he sighs in frustration, turns back to me, takes hold of my left arm, and drags me along quickly. I know why (the longer we stay, the higher a chance we have of getting caught by the teachers), but I'm still frustrated at him. I've only got two lines left and I want to write them down before I forget them. Dalton doesn't seem to care, though. He just continues to drag me along like what I want doesn't matter at all, but, in his world, I'm pretty sure that's true. I don't think he gives a damn about what I think or want. He's rather selfish, honestly.

When he's finished dragging me around, we're on the roof, which brings to mind a certain thing I said earlier, just about an hour ago. It seems to be on his mind, too, but he doesn't say a word as he lets me go and pulls out a cigarette. Does he really have to smoke all the fucking time? It's so disgusting, but I'm quite sure that part of the reason he's doing it right now is the fact that I hate it so very much.

He sends me a curious look at that point, as if he's wondering why I'm watching him. It isn't egotistical or anything like. It's just curious, like he thought I'd be doing something else. Oh, the poem! Damn, and I almost forgot those lines. Thank goodness he didn't let me forget. It's a little bit creepy how I know exactly what he means by those little looks, though.

I look down at my paper and scribble down the last lines of the poem before going over it to make sure it's ready for next block—and there's no way I'm missing that class. Trig is quite another story, though. Everything seems to fit and rhyme correctly. Sure, 'mouth' and 'uncouth' don't exactly rhyme, but it's eye rhyme. It's not random rhyme like Hopkins said it should be called in class the other day. 'Dog' and 'mongoose' don't rhyme either, though, because there is absolutely nothing called animal rhyme.

"Done?" he asks me, glancing at me through the smoke.

I nod and put my paper and pencil in the messenger bag at my side. No point in keeping it out if it just gives him more chances to read it before he's allowed to. He doesn't seem to be interested in it right now… or else he's just playing it cool. But, then again, he just doesn't seem to be interested in _anything_ right now.

"What's up?" I ask interestedly.

"Thinking," he says rather pensively (which fits).

"About what exactly?"

He takes another drag of the cigarette, and, in a sudden bout of frustration, I walk over to him and take the partially burnt contaminator away from him before smashing it beneath one of my no longer clean schoolgirl shoes. And then he stares at me in surprise.

"What were you thinking about?" I ask again, not caring that he's utterly aghast (actually, I'm quite enjoying it).

"Well, now I'm thinking about how you stole and destroyed my smoke."

"You'll get over it."

He raises an eyebrow before smirking and saying, "Now how about some entertainment, O'Brien?"

I laugh rather mockingly and say, "Are you sure? I did say after dinner but I guess now works, too."

"Oh, I'm quite sure. If I don't like it, though, I'm afraid I won't be paying you," he adds gravely.

My eyebrows quite easily reach up into my bangs. "I'm a prostitute now, am I, Dalton?" I challenge, a certain edge to my voice that he easily ignores.

"If you like," he shrugs.

"Let's get one thing straight, Dalton, before I show you something quite entertaining: I am not, nor will I ever be, a prostitute, whore, or slut of any sort. I have never devoted myself wholly to a person enough to exchange bodily fluids and grievous amounts of emotions with that person—unlike you."

"Ah, but I've only ever exchanged bodily fluids. Who really gives a damn about emotions anyway?"

"I do," I snap at him. I know he's just kidding around, but teenage sex is something I take very seriously. One of my friends at my previous school succumbed to the will of her boyfriend and was never the same again. She lacked that necessary perseverance, apparently, and, for that, she paid the consequences.

"That's nice," he said, dismissing it without question. "Entertainment?"

"Please also note that I'm not your slave."

He nods again, this time in amusement. "Quite noted. If you were my slave, we would've had sex by now."

"If you were _my_ slave, you'd've committed suicide by now."

"Entertainment," he reminds me, smirking, as he pulls out another cigarette, lights it, and eagerly applies it to his mouth. Jackass.

I return his smirk with a glare of my own and drop my messenger bag on the stone top of the building. "You also would've stopped smoking by now. Besides, I thought I was entertaining you, Dalton," I say in false disappointment.

"You're always entertaining me, Irish," he returns wholeheartedly, rolling his eyes at my first statement.

I don't make a single move for a moment. "Really?" I say curiously, and I suddenly stoop down to pick up my bag again. "Well, then, I guess I don't have to do anything special for you." I consider leaving the roof for a moment but don't really feel like it at present, so I merely drop my bag on the stones again.

He pulls the cigarette away from his lips for a moment before blowing the smoke out in my direction. "You were going to do something special for me?" he asks skeptically.

"No," I cough, waving the smoke away with my hand.

Dalton laughs for a moment at my evidently funny antics before saying earnestly, "I didn't think so."

Once recovered, I reply with a sneer, "Yes, because you just know everything about me, don't you?" I roll my eyes and continue speaking before he can say a word in his own defense (that is, _if_ he was going to defend himself at all). "I don't even know why I came up here in the first place."

"I do," he interjects.

I ignore anything he has to say. "I hate you, so what's the point?"

"Nah, you don't hate me."

"Maybe if you weren't such a jackass, I wouldn't hate you, but you are so I do. So why did I come up here with you? Why am I wasting my time just to play idiotic children's games with you?"

"You like it."

"I should be in class. I should be learning about sine and cosine and radians and all that stupid shit that's far too much like geometry for my liking. I don't care for it, but I should still learn it."

"If you don't like it, you shouldn't learn it."

"I shouldn't be wasting my time with you. I shouldn't even be spouting this nonsense. I should just march right down those stairs and go back to class and get a detention for skipping."

"What's the point? We'll both get detentions anyway."

"You're not helping," I finally snap at him, incensed.

"Will you stop complaining already?" he replies, rolling his eyes at me. "One of the things I like about you is that you don't whine all the time. You don't mess with your hair all the time. You don't apply a fake face just to look beautiful. You don't let anything bother you, least of all me, so will you just shut up already? You obviously came up here because you wanted to—I certainly didn't force you to do anything, so that must be it. If that's not it, then I have no idea why you did come up here."

I stare at him for a moment, not sure what to make of what he said, until I finally say quietly, "Are we becoming friends, Charlie Dalton? Or are you actually a jackass, a pervert, and a sweet guy all wrapped into one?"

He shrugs, returning to his cigarette like he didn't just say all those nice (and yet rude at the same time) things.

"Well, if we are, then I'm going to have to change my poem a little bit."

This catches his attention. "You wrote a poem about me?" he asks, raising an eyebrow (again—he seems to do that a lot).

It's my turn to shrug. "Just a little bit." Without another word, I move to stand beside him at the edge of the roof and look down at everything below. At the sight of a teacher walking very near to us, I lower myself so as to not get caught.

He gives me a funny look at this before glancing down below and smirking. It's Mr. McAllister, who's actually a rather nice teacher, even if his classes are a little boring. (They're better now than they were last year, apparently, or so Neil and Pitts have told me. Still, Latin was never my favorite subject.) Dalton takes the remaining half of the cigarette out of his mouth, the smirk growing even larger as he does so, and tosses it down toward our Latin professor. I will admit, he has rather good aim, but, just as it hits the man on the shoulder, we both duck completely out of view. Mr. McAllister will never learn a thing… I hope.

While leaning up against the cold stone, I glance over at him to notice that he's laughing quite silently. God, could he be more immature? All right, yes, he could, but that's not the point.

I groan in frustration, and, still stooping, move to pick up my messenger bag and turn to leave. "Jackass," I say before stepping through the door and hurrying on to class—where I should have been all this time.


	9. Epiphany

_Again, sorry that it's taken me so long to update. I only had about five hundred words done on this yesterday morning, but, whenever I received a PM from one of my readers, it reminded me of this story so I was determined to write on it more. Well, I finished the chapter today, and I like how it turned out amazingly enough._

_Thanks so much, everyone!_

_Anatui_

_**Disclaimer:** Wait a minute, this is a not a disclaimer, so never you mind, loves._

_**Claimer:** I do own the two poems in here. "Perfect Mouth" and "Cancer" were both written specifically for this story, and I like how both of them turned out._

* * *

_Chapter 9 – Epiphany._ (Charlie's POV)

When I reach English class, the bell is about to ring and I hardly make it in before it does. I'm just lucky, I guess. I'm smiling all the way, positively excited about the prospects of this specific class—mostly because I really want to hear the poem that Irish wrote a couple hours ago. I didn't even get to read one whole line, so it's rather frustrating. But she better read it aloud because, if she doesn't, I'll be forced to steal it from her and assault her for lying to me. The fun kind of assault, too. Because, let's face it, I'd never actually physically hurt her on purpose. I mean, no matter how headstrong she is, she's still a girl.

Anticipating what's to come, I allow my eyes to wander toward her seat as Mr. Keating marks the one absentee down. She's not looking my way, talking with Jessica, actually. She looks angry, probably something about her being late. At least, that's what it sounds like from the little bit that I can hear. She's angry when she turns away from Jessica, who looks sad and upset after the conversation, but, when I catch her eyes, I note that her eyes still look normal. Regrettable, really. Her eyes look best when they're fiery.

Her eyes immediately narrow at the sight of me watching her, and she turns away again, too angry to look at me.

All right, so, trying to figure her out here…. She gets angry at Jessica, but her eyes stay normal. Then, she looks at me, turns livid, her eyes get that beginning of the fire, and she turns away. I know I try to infuriate her all the time, but since when did just looking at me make her so angry? Sure, she was angry before, too, but that doesn't really say much.

With how quickly she gets angry at me, I don't see how she could have asked me earlier if we were becoming friends. She acts like she hates me so much. I mean, I know she doesn't—well, I don't _know_, but I'm pretty damn sure of it—but she certainly acts like it an awful lot. But, then again, I know I act like I hate her, too, sometimes. She knows that I don't either. We're probably the most childish pair around here, honestly. All we really do is insult and annoy each other… and flirt, but that's not quite as prevalent as the other two. But that's mostly because most of the flirting is one-sided (my side), but two-sided flirting (from her side, too) is becoming more and more prevalent as time passes.

Now, what exactly does that tell us? That she's warming up to me? That she's starting to fancy me? Or that she's stopped caring about how others perceive her? I don't know. I honestly have no idea. I don't understand her at all, but, at the same time, I can tell what her mood is immediately, especially if I can catch a glimpse of her eyes. They say that the eyes are a window to the soul—I'd never really thought that was true until I met Miss Moira O'Brien here.

But how does that make sense? How can I understand her and yet not understand her at all? This is so very confusing. God, this is what makes me hate girls. They're all just plain confusing…. Well, all the good ones are. Then, there are those like Jessica that are so very flat that they're not confusing at all. Generally a little stupid, too. And boring as hell. But pretty damn easy to get into bed, and that's the interesting part.

Honestly, if I have to spend my whole life with someone, I'd want her to at least be interesting—and not just the sex. I mean, I'm going to have to get married eventually—sure, I'll delay it as long as possible, but it's inevitable—so I'm going to have to find somebody that's interesting enough to not bore me to death. Confusing would actually be good. That way, I'd have the rest of my life to figure her out.

It's not like I _need_ a woman in my life. Because I don't. Women aren't important enough. They're just… well, women. I don't even really believe in love, anyway, so getting married just seems like a tedious affair to me. I don't want to get married. But it just seems like you _have_ to be married to be considered _respectable _in this town. God, I hate this society. It's fucking moronic, if you ask me. Not that anybody ever does. No-one gives a damn about the opinion of the rebel. People just want to suppress different ideas and ways of life. It's like being different is just automatically wrong. Can you get any more idiotic? No, I don't think so.

So I don't _need_ a lifelong companion. That's been settled. I _do_ need sex, though, but what guy doesn't? It's not my fault that I get those urges, though. Anyway, how did I get on this topic in the first place? Where was my mind going…? Oh, yeah, right. I don't believe in love. I believe in sex.

So what does that mean to me and Irish? Honestly, I don't know. I don't know how I feel toward her. Sometimes it seems like she's just another girl, like everyone else. But she's so different, too. She's always interesting, never dull in the least. And she's always got some snooty, sarcastic remark on her tongue, just ready to throw it at me if I move even an inch. Sometimes, it's like she has me wrapped around her finger, under lock and key, but I can tell that she feels the same way, only switching the roles. It's weird. Half the time, it's like we hate each other, but, the other half, it's more like we're best friends… if that even makes sense.

Slowly, through my cumbersome thoughts, Mr. Keating's voice finally comes to me as he says quite amiably, "Any volunteers?" Oh, yeah, the original poems.

I quickly fish through my notebook to find where I put mine and smile when I find it. A little proud of it, honestly, though it's probably not exactly what Mr. Keating was hoping for. Of course, I don't think he imagined he'd get anything normal and boring from me. He knows me too well. I did my best to make it school-appropriate, though, so that should make him happy. And proud. He _should_ be proud of me for that.

I'm a little nervous about it, though. But, then again, Charlie Dalton, of all people, does _not_ get nervous. Poetry's about emotions—at least, that's how I see it—so I put emotion into my poem. But, to most people, it probably seems like I don't _have_ true emotions. I certainly don't show most of them. But I do. This could prove that. Or it could make me a bit of a mockery. Except I'm the one that does most of the mocking around here, so at least I won't have to worry about what side _I_'ll be on.

It's a bit funny, though, that my poem is about O'Brien and hers is about me. Wait a minute. Do we really think about each other that much? I didn't even realize how much I thought about her, but for her to think about me just as much is a little beyond amazing.

I glance over to her seat to catch a glimpse of her, but she's not there. Wait, what happened? Dammit, I was daydreaming again. I need to stop doing that if I want good grades. I quickly scan the rest of the room to find her and easily discover that she's just stopped at the front of the room with her notebook in hand. Did she volunteer to read her poem? Good.

At Mr. Keating's, sitting in the back, signal, she clears her throat and introduces her poem. "This is titled 'Perfect Mouth' and is dedicated to someone in this room. He knows who he is." Then, she begins to read in a strong, proud voice.

"_Your tongue whips out like that of a snake,  
__Words dripping from it like honey but not so sweet.  
__Is there anything that can slake  
__Your hunger for another piece of meat?_

"_And the way your lips curl up—  
__It's just simply infuriating—  
__Ruins what I was going to say; I mess up.  
__I know I'll be forever reiterating._

"_Your teeth are eerily straight—  
__I thought I ought to make that known.  
__But is there anything that can sate  
__The lust I can hear in your tone?_

"_It's a wonder that such demented words  
__Can come out of your perfect mouth.  
__It's like how some beautiful birds  
__Fly like angels but then caw off to the south._

"_The way you speak, I'll never understand:  
__You say things charming and then you do not;  
__You're kind and funny, and you take my hand,  
__But then you go back on the frilly words you just wrought._

"_I can't even look at you, 'cause I know what you'll say:  
__You'll laugh and you'll joke, not caring one bit.  
__So I'm purely aghast when you look my way,  
__Trying to woo and amuse me with wit._

"_How can anything spoken so nastily  
__Come out of that perfect mouth?  
__And, as you sit there, laughing dastardly,  
__I resolve: you're simply, positively uncouth!_"

As she reads it, I can't help but smirk. Especially when, after finishing, she looks up at me with the deepest glare yet. Hmm, I like that look on her. Makes her seem so… I don't know, but it's enticing. Makes me want to take risks and go all out. Maybe shove her up against a wall and… you know. But, somehow, I don't think she'd take that very well—and I don't think I'd be recovering from her response any time soon. It could be very painful. I get the feeling that she can be very violent.

But she obviously looks at me as much as I want her to. Her poem definitely said that. She must know that I say and do all these things just to annoy her, though. If she didn't… well, I guess I would have been giving her too much credit. But I have complete faith in her intelligence. And that knowledge probably just makes it even more infuriating, right? Excellent. So now I know that I'm having an effect on her—exactly the effect I want to have.

Besides, if she can announce that to the whole class, I can announce anything I want, too. So, before Captain asks for another volunteer, I offer to read mine.

As she retreats to her seat, I make my own way toward the front of the room and say, "This is 'Cancer'," once I'm there. At this point, I send Irish what I hope is a meaningful look. She's _supposed_ to understand that it's about her, and I'm pretty sure that she does, but I'm not completely sure. So I read:

"_You're cancer,  
__A malignant mass in my head.  
__You're ugly,  
__The worst thing on this earth.  
__You're evil,  
__Complete devilry.  
__I just can't stand to look at you—  
__Every time I do, I just can't stand._

"_You're stinging,  
__Lemon juice in an open wound.  
__You're sarcastic,  
__Just because you know I hate it.  
__You're fire,  
__Burning me when I want one touch.  
__I can hardly stand being near you—  
__When I am, I can hardly stand._

"_You're a monster,  
__Scary and enthralling.  
__You're cold,  
__Brushing me off with your sharp tongue.  
__You're faultless,  
__Blaming it all on me.  
__I can't dare believe the words you say—  
__But, when you speak, I dare anything._

"_You're insulting,  
__Constantly putting me down.  
__You're intimidating,  
__Proving that I can be wrong.  
__You're crazy,  
__Enough to drive me insane.  
__You're my tumor—  
__You've become a part of me._"

Neil raises an eyebrow at me as I finish, and I can't help but grin at his reaction. In fact, all the guys seem a little bit surprised—except Knox, but that's because he read it yesterday after I wrote it. Actually, he stole it from me and read it, so he wasn't supposed to, but he did anyway. I must be rubbing off on him, then.

I move to my seat proudly, a little nervously. While, after her poem, she looked at me immediately, I can't allow myself to look at her. I don't want to see her reaction. She—she's just… well, I just don't want to see it.

I don't get nervous, though. I'm better than that. I'm brave enough not to be scared or afraid. What do I have to be scared of, anyway? I don't even care about what she thinks of me. She's just a girl. She doesn't matter.

Mind over matter.

Charlie Dalton doesn't get nervous.

Frustrated with myself, I oh-so-casually allow my eyes to wander across the room and toward her seat. For a moment, I hesitate, but, at the look—a look of complete adoration and amusement—on Jessica Hennessey's face, I _have_ to.

The two of them are whispering animatedly to each other. Jessica is ecstatic about something, but Moira just looks completely perturbed by her friend's words. I don't blame her for it. That girl can be utterly annoying sometimes.

And, then, she looks right up at me, and I want to turn away but I just can't. She's doing that glarey-thing again, like it's supposed to torment me or something. Torment, no. Nervous, maybe a little bit, but I'm never going to admit that aloud. Her pleasure in that fact just might kill me—and my pride. And that's something I just can't stand.

We stare at each other for a while, and I'm not hearing anything that Mr. Keating is saying or the next person that's reading his poem. Actually, I don't notice much of anything until Knox taps me on the shoulder and I reluctantly turn to him to see whatever the hell it is that he wants.

"What?" I whisper when he doesn't say anything right away.

He rolls his eyes at my reaction and says in an almost sing-song whisper, "Spill it already," like he knows something I don't.

I furrow my brow in confusion. "Spill what? I'm not keeping anything from you."

"That's what you say," he replies dubiously.

"Why would I lie? What would I have to lie about even?" I snap. Does he seriously think that I could keep something from him? Even if there was something, I wouldn't be able to hold it in. I just can't do something like that. I don't have the skill to hide things from my friends. If I have something to say, I have to say it.

He nods his head toward the two girls—as if that's supposed to be some indication and I'm just supposed to know what he means. "_Her_."

"What about Irish?" I ask.

"Oh, come on," he says in disbelief.

Then, I suddenly get it, what he's trying to say without making it sound so very… improper. "There's nothing going on," I clarify immediately.

"I know that," he snaps in frustration.

Duh, of course he does, Dalton, I remind myself.

"I can tell," he continues quietly, "but I can also tell that you want there to be something going on—and not just because you want to piss off Cameron. I mean, of course you want to piss off Cameron, but that's not it. You _like_ her."

"I like girls," I remind him.

"No, you don't," he counters right away. "You _hate_ girls. You just like to make them like _you_. It's like you need to feel superior and necessary or something. Did you know you're completely insane, by the way?"

It's my turn to roll my eyes as I say, "Way to make my self-esteem plummet."

"You get enough ego boosts from all the bimbos you drag around," he replies good-naturedly. "Now, when are you going to admit that you have a crush on Moira and talk to her about it? This tension between you two is so tangible it could be cut with a knife."

"I don't, though," I reiterate. "I don't have a crush on Irish."

"You do, too," he grins, as if it's so obvious that I should have noticed or something. "I know it. Neil knows it. Pitts knows it. Meeks knows it. Todd knows it. We've all known it since the moment we first saw you two interact. You've liked her since you met her."

"We've been over this before. I don't like her."

But he just continues like I haven't said a word. "Hell, even Cameron's noticed, and he's not exactly the most observant type."

For some reason, his choice of words just bothers me, and I can't help glaring at the boy sitting at the front of the room. "He seems to be a little more observant when it comes to the girl _he_ has a crush on."

"What?" he asks in surprise. "Cameron likes Moira?"

"Yeah, duh," I say, rolling my eyes again. Jeez, that's the most obvious thing in the world, especially with him looking up her skirt on that first day of English class. "He has since the beginning of the year—probably before."

Knox doesn't say anything for a moment and, then, adds with a grin, "And you're jealous."

Jeez, this still? "I am not. I'd have to like her to be jealous, and I don't."

"Please," he groans irritably. "You do, too, and _she_ certainly hasn't been persuaded to think otherwise by your very obvious behavior. If I didn't know you better, I'd have to say that you love her. You're lucky that I do, though."

Taking this small statement into consideration, I glance back over to her and purse my lips angrily. "She's just another girl. She doesn't matter." But I'm not sure if I'm telling the truth anymore. I don't know.

He doesn't believe me, and I didn't expect him to. "Yeah, right. You keep telling yourself that, buddy," Knox ends, feeling bigger for a moment or two. Yeah, well, he can feel good all he wants for bruising my ego. It's not like I'm going to focus on that now. I'm too… confused, I guess.

This is serious now. I don't even really know what to think about her anymore. She's just… completely, utterly indefinable. Do I actually like her? I honestly don't know. It's a little worrying, though, that I don't know my own feelings anymore. If I can have a crush on a girl and not even realize it, there's got to be something wrong with me, right? Right!

All right, I need something to help me figure this out, something to organize my thoughts. Because this isn't making any sense. A list.

I pull out my pencil and flip to a new page in my notebook that isn't filled with random crap or lewd drawings and divide the paper in half. On the left side, I title it 'Pros' and, on the left, 'Cons'. This should aid me.

The first idea that comes to mind is that she's attractive, and I add it, quickly following it with many others. Eventually, my list is complete, and rather one-sided, if you ask me. I read over it to make sure I haven't missed anything.

The left side shows: attractive; intelligent; strong; daring; fantastic poet; good with words; quick on her feet; artistic; determined; not easily persuaded; feisty as hell; does her best to ignore me and fails miserably; completely insane; doesn't wear makeup; doesn't care about physical appearance; doesn't complain (most of the time); and, most importantly, fiery eyes.

And the right shows: friends with Cameron; ignores the fact that he has a crush on her, even though she knows it; wants me to stop smoking; drives me crazy; confusing enough for me to make a list.

You know, despite all the things I put in that poem, they're all almost endearing in a weird way. If she didn't have that temper and if she didn't give me that cold shoulder all the time, I wouldn't have any respect for her. She needs to be headstrong for me to truly respect her, in all honesty. Besides, some of the things I put in that poem were a little exaggerated—for the sake of the poetry.

So that's… what, seventeen?... against one, two, three, four. Seventeen to four. Jeez, how much more one-sided can you get? Well, other than, like, a thousand against one.

God, my life is over. Charlie Dalton doesn't get crushes. He doesn't like girls. If he did, he'd be… he'd be like _Knox_. Not that Knox is a bad person. He's just too… in love with Chris, for one thing, which is kinda gross. Come on, he fell in love with her when he barely knew her and only because she's beautiful! That's so stupid, so very… well, Knox-like. Sure, that's just the way Knox is, but I'm not like that, and I couldn't possibly stand to be like that. It'd be weird.

So what can I do now?

I could always continue to be in denial, but, even as this thought runs through my head, it comes to me: Just the fact that I know I'm in denial proves that I'm coming out of my denial. I'm actually realizing that I _do_ like her.

Stupid Knox and his stupid romance wisdom. He has a girlfriend, so he _must_ know all about girls and how to woo them to keep them. Yeah, well, I say bullshit to that! He may have a girlfriend, and he may be perfectly happy and content with her, but he has issues when it comes to love. One day, he'll meet some other beautiful, sweet girl and 'fall in love' with her instead. He'll leave Chris heartbroken and angry that she gave up Chet for him. (Actually she probably wouldn't be that upset about giving up Chet because who seriously would? It's Chet Danbury, and he's an utter moron, after all.) And, then, the girl he just met wouldn't even give him a chance because she's already in love. Then, he could be miserable like he should be for telling me this crap.

But, you know, stupid Charlie over here doesn't know anything about girls. He couldn't even figure out that he had a crush on the Irish girl without help. His friends had to help him. What a loser, come on! I haven't had a real relationship for a couple years, so I obviously don't know anything about relationships, right? Way to go, Knox. Way to make me feel like an utter loser and idiot.

And you know what happens now? Now that I've actually admitted (to myself alone) that I have a crush on her, I'm stuck with thinking about it. And thinking about having a crush on someone certainly doesn't help. That's one of the reasons I gave up relationships. They only lead to heartache. It's not like my parents were ever happy, so why should I expect any relationship I ever get into to make _me_ happy? Marriage is going to be such a drag.

Besides, even if this crush goes so far as to make me want to marry Moira O'Brien, which I highly doubt, my parents would never approve. Not that Irish would agree in the first place, but I'm ignoring that stipulation for this small hypothesis. So her opinion doesn't really matter because it'd never be able to happen. My parents would like her. I'm pretty sure that they don't like Europeans. I have no earthly idea why, but they just don't like them. Maybe it's a foreigner thing. I don't know. I stopped trying to understand them a long time ago because it never worked in all the times I've tried before.

So what am I going to do about this god-awful crush?

Knox says that I should talk to her about it, but, somehow, I don't think that would go over very well. She doesn't seem particularly fond of me at present, something that makes me enjoy her company even more in a weird way. So that's completely out of the question.

Or I could just act on my physical attraction toward her. Which just sounds utterly moronic. I'm not a moron, so I won't do that. I don't want to have… damaged goods.

No, I like the idea of not doing anything at all. Screw Knox and his 'romantic wisdom'. He doesn't know shit about relationships—at least not any more than I do. And his experience isn't experience enough to flaunt it. No, it's much safer to act like nothing is different. Besides, honestly, if I have liked her since I met her, which is what everyone else seems to think, then nothing's really different, now is it? It isn't. Good observation.

Eww, stupid fucking observant Cameron. I hate him. All right, so I am jealous. And I don't think I like that word anymore. I must be sure to never use that again because it'll just remind me of _him_ looking up _her_ skirt, which isn't allowed. Sure, I have no right to dictate which guys check her out, but it's _Cameron_. And, even if it weren't, it's still a _guy_ looking up her _skirt_. And that's just _not allowed_. Unless it's me. But, if she ever gives me that opportunity, I get the feeling that looking isn't the only thing I'd be doing. I mean, she keeps a close eye on me to make sure I'm not overstepping my bounds, so, if I can see up her skirt, it's because she wants me to, in which case looking isn't good enough. End of story.

But that's just it. No more than a story. Because there's no way that Moira O'Brien, resident goody two-shoes with a sexy Irish accent is ever going to let me touch her in any sexual way—let alone _want_ me to. Yeah, just a story.

So. Denial over. Epiphany received. Poetry read. Frustration amplified. Crush recognized. Jealousy admitted. Sexual attraction heightened. Desire—need, honestly—to shove her up against a wall, do naughty things to her, and hear her make some very enticing sounds—yeah, that's definitely there and not going away any time soon, especially since I'm not going to be able to do it any time soon (or ever, probably).

So, yeah, I'm screwed. And not even in the good way.

God, I need to get out of this classroom now.

The bell rings.

Whoa, that was really creepy. Thanks, God. I owe you one.

"Mr. Dalton, please remain for a moment," calls Mr. Keating from the back of the classroom, and I all but groan. "I need to have a short word with you."

Well, maybe I don't owe you one if you're going to be like that.

I close my notebook and stuff my pencil in my jacket pocket but don't stand up as Captain stands and says a quick word to Knox about talking in class.

As all the other students leave, he sits down in the chair in front of me and smiles at me with that Mr.-Keating-smile of his. He pauses to make sure we're alone before he begins to speak. "I just reminded Mr. Overstreet that it's rude to talk, even quietly, during a lesson, especially when another student is reading his work. That was very inconsiderate of you two."

"You didn't stop us," I remind him.

"That's true," he admits, "but I doubted you would have stopped totally had I spoken to you. I felt that it would be better for the two of you to finish the conversation so there were no further interruptions, especially since you were whispering. You did not disturb the class very much, but that does not make it all right to do so."

"I know," I reply. God, now I'm actually feeling guilty about it. What's happening to me?

"You seem to have something on your mind, though, Nuwanda," he says questioningly. "And, using your poem today as a reference, may I assume it has to do with Miss O'Brien?" When I don't say anything in response, he continues. "She's a lovely girl, you know, but she wouldn't be content with a more cavalier relationship, I would think. Nothing formal, I would suspect, but she needs something tangible. Do you think you could provide her with that?"

Frustrated, I sit up straight and respond snappishly, "I don't want to _provide_ her with _anything_. Why does everyone think that I like her?" Of course, I already know the answer to this rhetorical question: Because I _do_ like her. But not even Captain really needs to know that. It's personal, and I'd rather be in denial than have the whole world know.

I need out of here. I just want to shut myself in my room and lock the door. Not even let Knox, my roommate, inside so he can sleep when the time comes. I need time alone to think this all through. And maybe to try to get some sleep.

I stand up without giving it much thought and take my things in my arms to leave. Mr. Keating seems to understand because he, too, stands up but makes his way toward his desk at the front of the classroom. When I'm about to exit the room, he calls out to me one last thing: "Oh, and, Mr. Dalton, what did I tell you about that bone last year?"

I hesitate at the door and can't help but smile slightly at the words. "I'm not choking, Cap'n," I reply, turning back to him quickly. "It just gets stuck in my teeth every once in a while."

"Miss O'Brien likes to be the one to get it stuck there, doesn't she?" he adds before sitting down behind his desk and going through his paperwork there. A rhetorical question. He knows. Just like everyone else. But he's not going to bother me about it if I really think I can handle it. But, the thing is, I'm not sure if I can. She's a lot to handle. But I can try.


	10. Like a Parasite

_All right, I know it's taken me forever to update (again!), but I have a pretty good reason this time. I was going to update as soon as I finished this chapter, but I didn't have my flash drive with me and my laptop has no way to connect to the internet. So, I'm sorry. But here it is! Enjoy!_

_Anatui_

* * *

_Chapter 10 – Like a Parasite._ (Moira's POV)

I can't believe him. He is utterly—completely and utterly Charlie Dalton. And I hate him for it. How could I ever think that he's—that he's… oh, fuck, I don't even know what. I just hate him. I saw it before, though. I most definitely did, but I tried to ignore it. The thing is, he really _is_ like a little boy tugging on my pigtails or calling me names or putting a frog down my dress or throwing something at me. It's like Anne of Green Gables. He's Gilbert Blythe and I'm Anne Shirley. He _does_ have a crush on me. The only problem with that analogy is that they actually get married in that book series.

So there's no longer any doubt on the matter. Charlie Dalton has a crush on me. He likes me. He fancies me. In fact, he's head over fucking heels for me. No doubt about it. And that fact just makes it worse—for me, at least. I mean, I knew before, but now I _know_. Oh, like that even makes any sense.

Well, he can have a crush on me all he wants (like he even wants to). There's nothing he could say or do that would make me like him in return. Or have sex with him, for that matter. There's no way that I ever would. He's just too…

God, I can't even fucking describe him properly. He just _is_. He's just _him_. All right, this one might work:

He is the most narcissistic, inconsiderate, rebellious, rude, moronic, self-righteous, pigheaded, sexually motivated person I have ever met in my entire life.

Yeah, that about sums it up.

But, then again, I might be able to think of a couple others to fit in there.

Seriously, though, he is the only person that can really get to me, make my skin crawl, make me want to pull my hair out. He just drives me entirely crazy because he thinks he's this big Mr. Macho that everyone should be in love with. But he's so not. He's just like everybody else—only with less merit _because_ he thinks he's better. Sure, he's attractive and he can be smooth when he wants to be, but that's so small, so unimportant. That stuff is just too superficial. But, then again, _he_ is a bit superficial… and yet he's not. Which doesn't even make any sense.

He's just so damn messed up in the head.

Which is making me messed up in the head. God, he drives me so crazy that I can't even really think correctly, which is just plain frustrating.

I hate him so much.

But, honestly, I know he doesn't _want_ to like me. Hell, he probably doesn't even realize it yet. And, trust me, that just makes it funny—probably the only funny thing about this entire situation. Besides, you know me, any moment I can laugh at Charlie Dalton is a good moment. Seriously. He just doesn't get laughed at enough. He usually seems to be the one to do the laughing and mocking.

And that just makes this whole thing more complicated.

Sometimes, it just feels like he'll always be around me, be near. Like he's a parasite or something equally grotesque.—Honestly, if he used pick-up lines (oh, thank God he doesn't), I can just imagine him saying something like, "I'll be your parasite if you'll be my host." And that's just fucking ridiculous and extremely cheesy.—And having him by my side all the time would be a very scary prospect, don't you think? I mean, I don't want to have him hanging around constantly. I don't need a leech to attach onto me.

That'd be just like another cage. And I'm through with cages. I hate them. I've lived with them my whole life. And it's constant, over and over, never-ending, and it's _always_ there. I'm a child, so I can't do anything. I'm a girl, so I can't do anything. I'm a foreigner, so I can't do anything. I'm a whatever-the-hell-comes-next, so I can't do anything. It's just the same old shit over and over again. I hate it. I hate it _so_ much. It's confining beyond belief, and, placing that aside, it's just plain wrong. I've been locked away enough in my life to not want anything else in it that could possibly do the same. Ever.

"Watch where you're going!" some guy snaps rudely as we barely bump into each-other. I look up at him as a pass, but his face, with its boorish glare, convinces me that I don't need to apologize to him. He huffs as we part ways, and I roll my eyes at his remark.

I probably _should_ be paying at least a little more attention to where I'm going, though, honestly. It's not a good idea to run into people all the time. But I guess I'm pretty good at not paying attention while walking. Usually, I can read and walk, or write and walk, or any other number of things, but thinking is an entirely different matter. I'm not really sure why, but it is. I guess it takes less to focus on one idea, like when writing or reading, etc., than it does when just allowing all thoughts to travel freely and openly through my head. And thinking about why thinking is bad when trying to walk through a crowd isn't helping either.

Which just becomes more evident as I turn a corner and run right into yet _another_ person. And, quite suddenly, I'm sprawled on the floor beside that other person and all of our books. Dammit, that fucking hurts, too! That's why thinking is bad.

I can't help but groan as I push myself up into a sitting position and shake my head to jar myself fully awake. For a moment, I hesitate about what to do next. I'm alert now, totally aware of my surroundings.

After a moment's hesitation, I decide I need to face the person I walked right into, who is already on his or her knees and gathering up his or her books beside me. When I look over at said person, I find one of the only other two girls in my grade: Lucy Nesbit. She's the strange one that likes horror and thriller stories and Edgar Allen Poe's poetry and prose. In fact, the book currently in her hand is a large volume of all his short stories ever published. She must really like him. Actually, she's probably read that book over and over again. Definitely wouldn't surprise me in the least.

I send her a small smile when she glances up at me and apologize profusely. "Oh, I'm really sorry, Lucy," I say, moving to my own knees to gather together all our books, schoolwork, and utensils. "I should have been paying closer attention to where I was going. I'm so sorry. I was off in my own little world, you know." I tilt my head to the side in consideration of this. Does she really know? I inwardly shrug. Who could tell? "Well, anyway," I continue, "I'm sorry. I guess I'm just really bad at multitasking." He let out a short, bitter puff of laughter. "I better not do it again, then."

She stopped looking at me by the end of my first sentence, and, when I finish, she just shrugs her small, petite shoulders lightly and replies in a quiet voice, "It's okay." She looks up at me strangely, then, and asks, "Where are you going, anyway?"

I glance around for a moment in confusion, first at her not realizing my destination by my course, and, then, second, at realizing that I'm not on the right course to reach my destination—at least, not quickly, anyway. "Uh, I _was_ going to the dormitories," I reply hesitantly.

She quirks her eyebrows at that bewildered statement and then begins to laugh. It's the first time I've ever heard her laugh, honestly. She's so dark and silent, never saying a word. She's not scary or anything—just different. She just doesn't seem to be very sociable. And she doesn't seem to like guys at all. But, when she begins to laugh, all that sort of ebbs away. She _isn't_ dark, or evil, or scary, or even all that different after all. Her laughter proves that. Anyone who can laugh so blatantly and honestly with such a soft, tinkling chuckle couldn't possibly be evil. Well, I suppose they could, but that's entirely beside the point. The point is that she's normal, just like everyone else. For a moment, I wonder if I'm the first to figure that out at this school, but something inside tells me otherwise.

For another moment after that first one, I almost feel insulted by her laughter, like she's making fun or me, but, then, I suddenly can't help but laugh as well. "I wasn't paying _any_ attention to where I was going," I admit with a grin, relaxing into the very open, intimate aura between the two of us. "I had _thought_ I was heading back toward the dormitories, but I walked in a full circle."

Now, I know this is the part where you say that that's not funny (or, at least, not _that_ funny), but so many things seem so much funnier if you're there and actually in the situation. Honestly, sometimes, I think back on something that made me laugh, and, taking it out of context, it's really not funny. But, having all the emotions pumping and in the right situation, something that would be boring or stupid at one point could be totally and utterly hilarious at another. It's really quite bizarre how that works, isn't it?

When our laughter finally subsides, we're both bent over forwards with our tummies aching. The pains quickly goes away, though, and we help each-other up. And, as we stand there, hugging our books to our chests, I realize that we've never actually met, and I feel the need to properly introduce myself. "I'm sorry we've never been properly introduced," I say, pausing a moment. "My name is Moira, Moira O'Brien." And I offer my hand to her.

She smiles lightly, partially averting her eyes, and replies, "I know. I'm Lucy Nesbit." She hesitates before taking the proffered hand and shaking it.

We stay that way for a while before I pull back and offer to walk with her back to the dormitories. I'm going there anyway, right? Right. It makes perfect sense, then. "Our rooms are right beside each-other, aren't they?" I ask rhetorically as we begin to move in that direction. "Who's your roommate?"

She shrugs her shoulders to that and tries to organize her books as we walk. "Her name is Eliza Walters. She's in the grade below ours. We barely talk to each-other, but I guess we get along fine enough." She smiles for a moment before adding, "Not that I ever get along fine enough with _anyone_."

I nod but try not to appear boorish at the same time, which, mind you, is a lot more difficult to do than you would think when only hearing or reading about it. She isn't looking at me or even in my direction, though, so I opt for adding something in as well. "You are a bit… difficult to talk to," I say as kindly as I can. I was never one to offend another without just cause… unless it's Dalton, which seems to be just cause enough for me.

She laughs almost bitterly at my words, and I feel slightly hurt by the small slight at me. Until she speaks. "You don't have to play nice with me, Moira," she replies, taking me aback. "I'm not sociable. You don't have to pretend I am. I certainly won't be pretending, so you shouldn't either." Very blunt. Rather impressive actually. That's something in a person that I can respect. And that doesn't happen often. Yes, I think I'm beginning to like this girl—this girl to whom I've never spoken a word before today.

I pause before making my response. "Then you don't have to pretend that I'm the most proper girl in the world, either," I finally say with a grin, and I allow laughter to take control of me for a minute. "This is good because I really don't care for pretending all that much. In fact, I rather hate it." I snicker again before inquiring, actually quite curious considering I have no watch, "So, how long has it been since class ended? I've most definitely lost track of time in my, er, internal rants."

She sends me a sidelong glance before replying, "Nearly twenty minutes, I'd reckon. I stayed behind to talk to Mr. Keating about my poem." Lucy smiled for a moment during a short pause before continuing. "I had to wait a little while, too, because he was talking to Dalton."

I nod at that, not sure if she wants me to respond to that last remark in any way. I certainly don't want to bring up the subject of Charlie Dalton. He spends too much time in my thoughts. It'd be horrible if he were the content of all my conversations as well.

When I don't reply, though, she asks, changing the subject easily, "So, what were you thinking about?"

I hesitate, saying, "Nothing," like I'm hiding something. Which I obviously am. Obvious to you and me _and_ her. All she has to do is send me a dubious look to cause me to elaborate on the subject a tiny bit. "Well, if you haven't noticed, my temper's a little short, and there just happen to be some people that make it even shorter than it already is, which is definitely something I _don't_ need."

"Person," she corrects without a pause, causing me to be suddenly awestricken. "Only _one_ person—and that's only because you _let_ him frustrate you." She glances at me with a small smile again, but I don't return it this time. I'm too caught up by her chosen words, which were definitely some words that I _wouldn't_ have used. Or ever liked the sound of. Because they make me sound weak. And I refuse to be weak. If anything, I'm more headstrong, brave, and formidable than he is.

"What do you mean?" I say after a while.

Lucy laughs, but this laughter isn't sweet and innocent like the first laughter I heard. It's kind of scary and kind of powerful, filled with just a little bit of malice—but it's more like she knows something that I don't and she's relishing it. I _knew_ there was a devious side to her. "No-one can make you feel any way, whether happy or sad or angry, without _your_ permission," she says with a small grin, and I can tell that she's going to say whatever she finds most amusing next. "You get angry at Dalton because you let yourself get angry." She glances at me to watch how I take what she's saying. "Everyone's noticed the way you two act. You revert each-other to children. It's sweet."

"You think insulting and yelling at each-other is sweet?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. I can tell that she hasn't let the _real_ thing slide yet, but it'll be coming soon. I know she's just itching to tell it to me.

She laughs again, and it's the nice laughter this time. "So maybe my definition of 'sweet' isn't quite the conventional one," she admits, "but it _is_ sweet. If you let him have that much control over your emotions, he must mean a lot to you."

And there it is. "He must mean a lot to you." It's all in that one phrase. Charlie Dalton must mean 'a lot' to me because I let him have so much 'control over my emotions.' I'm insulted by those words. In fact, I'm so totally insulted that I stop in my tracks as soon as they have registered in my brain, which didn't take over a second.

What a total load of rubbish! Dalton doesn't mean _any_thing to me. He's, like I thought of earlier, just a parasite. If anything, he's _my_ cancer. So, really, how dare he come up with that shite to read in front of the class! It was totally hyperbolizing the matter. Besides, _he's_ the one that follows _me_ around everywhere like a goddamn lost puppy! (He, of all people, would get a kick out of being 'owned,' now wouldn't he? Yes, he would.)

He has so much control over my emotions, eh? He doesn't have _that_ much control over them. He's just fucking frustrating. But, if she really thinks that he does, then I'll just have to change that. Oh, all right, fine, I have to admit, he does have a little too much control over me. She's right in that respect. So, if I let him have so much control over me, I _must_ change it. I don't want to ever have anyone but myself controlling the way I act and feel and think. He debilitates me, and I can't stand it.

So I have to overcome the desire to argue with him. But, for the life of me, I can't come up with a reasonable response to how he treats me. Maybe insulting from afar would be better? I don't have to yell at him and call him names. I can use wit and irony with so much more poise. Something like that can even be more hurtful to the recipient. It may just drive my point deeper, that I don't like him in the least. But I can't imagine us not fighting. It'd be like the apocalypse or something equally scary. Plus, I really don't think I'd be able to change my retaliations in response to his actions. It's all done on instinct—and, apparently, my instinct tells me to yell at and argue with him. Oh, God, contradictory feelings were never good.

Lucy stops, too, just a few feet in front of me and looks back. "Are you all right, Moira? Or have my words scared you?" she asks curiously. She doesn't mean anything by those words, I can tell. She just wants to know what sort of impact she's made on my thoughts, especially those of Charlie Dalton, I'm sure.

For a moment, I don't do anything. Frankly, I have no idea _what_ to do. But, then, I give in to my better judgment, which is telling me to respond to her words, and shake my head to clear away those thoughts. "I'm fine," I reply with a deep sigh. "You just shocked me, that's all. Charlie Dalton doesn't mean anything to me. He's just a pain in the arse. I hate him." Yes, when in doubt, deny, deny, deny. I'm not one for pretending, but I'm not afraid of a good lie. After all, lying is what gets people elected into important positions so that they can screw everybody over once they get there.

We continue on our way, side by side once more.

"Oh, right, I hear stories like this all the time," is her reply. Very nonchalant, very casual. She acts like this is the most everyday thing in the entire world—not that it's out-of-this-world, but it doesn't exactly happen _every_ day. "You're like a modern-day Darcy and Elizabeth. A little more violent, though. And a little more sexually enthused. But, just like Elizabeth, one day, you'll finally begin to realize that he's not as much of an asshole as he first appears to be and that you rather like him."

I snort at that. Sorry, couldn't help it. It's just… so _wrong_. "You sound just like Jessica," I somewhat reprimand, but then try to correct my minor error. "Well, actually, you sound more refined and eloquent than she does, but that's entirely beyond the point. The point is, both you and Jessica are wrong. I'm sorry to inform you of this, but I will _never_ feel _any_thing of such an intimate nature for him. And, if I ever do, may God smite me down as soon as it happens. I don't imagine that it would be that great a pleasure living in a world where I am attracted to Charlie Dalton."

"If that's what helps you sleep at night," she smirks doubtfully.

My pride won't let that small remark slide, though. I have to say rather smugly, "I've always slept rather soundly, actually, so I don't see how something so _very_ minuscule as Charlie Dalton could _ever_ change that fact. Dalton doesn't invade my dreams or keep me up at night."

She laughs at that, and I glare at her in response. "Well, if you really think it's all that minuscule, then, by all means, be my guest. When you can't fall asleep tonight, you'll know why."

"Oh, will I now? Tell me, why will that be?" I ask testily. I just want to hear what she has to say to that—probably won't be very intriguing, though.

She smirks to that. It's not like Dalton's smirk—not pompous and conceited. No, it's more like she's laughing inside at the irony of the situation, thinking that, once I hear this very interesting prospect of hers, it _will_ come true. Which I doubt. Profusely. "Because," she says with that smirk still there on her pale, delicate lips, "now that you're actually considering the matter, it seems far more plausible than you had originally thought, and you'll be too busy thinking about Charlie Dalton and this whole conversation that you won't be able to shut your eyes without his image flashing in your mind."

We reach our dormitories and split ways before I can think of a suitable response to that. That was actually pretty good. I mean, it's not like I've been thoroughly convinced by her words, but it was enthralling to say the least. I'm partly glad for the separation, except that, when I enter my dorm, I find Jessica inside it, sitting on her bed. And she is definitely the last person I want to deal with right now—well, maybe not the last, considering that spot is currently reserved for none other than Mr. Charlie Dalton himself, but you get the point.

Jessica looks up at me as I enter the room and shed my messenger bag and excess books. She smiles up over her own work, which is laid out all in front of her. She's working on her mathematics homework. I've already finished all of mine. I would've left some to do tonight, as I like to space it all out so that I'm not cramming all the work into one time slot, but the first meeting of the Dead Poets Society since they asked me to join is tonight—and there's no way I'm going to be doing homework before we leave when I could be sleeping. So you bet your arse that I've finished my homework before now.

"You left the classroom in quite a hurry," she says, a small, almost apologetic smile gracing her lips. "I had expected you to be here when I arrived, but you were nowhere in sight."

She's skirting around actually asking where I've been and what I've been doing. Let's face it, I wasn't exactly Miss Happy-Go-Lucky in English today, so she's probably a little worried. God, I can't believe that I'm such a bitch to her all the time. She's just so annoying. I mean, she gets really in-your-face and strong-willed whenever there's something important to her or something she's really interested in, but, when it comes to people, she's not very good with staying all cool and collected. In fact, she's _very_ good at making other people get very pissed off and annoyed, mainly me.

I try not to be cold when I speak. It's my way of apologizing without actually having to say that I'm sorry. I hate having to say I'm sorry. "Yeah," I reply, eager to answer her unasked question, "I got a little sidetracked. It's nothing to worry about, though. After all, I'm here now." I waver once and check the door to make sure no-one is within hearing distance before adding, "You know what tonight is, don't you?"

She nods in response before looking back down to the papers in front of her. "Yeah, I do, but I'm not going."

I sigh, somewhat amazed that she can pass it up but, at the same time, not surprised in the least. Poetry never seemed to be the sort of thing she was interested in, now did it? No, it most certainly didn't. "This is the first meeting they've had since they told us about it. Aren't you the _least_ bit interested in it?"

"Not really," she shrugs. "Maybe a little bit, but not enough to risk getting caught and possibly expelled. Besides, I've told you a thousand times that I'm not really a big fan of poetry. It's just not my cup of tea." I can't help but feel a little frustrated at her response, but she's right when she says that it isn't her cup of tea. If she doesn't like poetry, I can't force her into it, no matter how much I love it.

"Yeah, I know," I reply with another sigh. "It's just that, well, poetry is my _forte_, and a whole club about it is probably the best thing that has happened to me since I came to this idiotic school. But, if you don't want to come, then that's just fine. I'm not afraid to go off to a cave with only boys there with me." I smile at her to let her know that it's all right with me, and, when I see her smile in return, when I have that assurance that we understand each-other (at least, at present), then I move toward the still open door. "I'll be back in a few minutes—half an hour tops. I'm just gonna talk to Lucy Nesbit a little bit."

After she nods to that, I exit the dormitory and shut the door behind me before making my way toward the room right beside ours. Lucy's door is open, and, thankfully, she is the only one inside at the present time, so I rap my knuckles lightly on the doorjamb as I enter. She doesn't even look up as I do—she probably already knows it's me. Before I even sit down (at the desk on her side of the room, of course), I ask the question that I've been itching to ask since we parted ways. "What do you mean?"

She laughs again, but she doesn't look up. She just continues putting away all her belongings in their rightful places as she answers. "We both know that Charlie Dalton has a crush on you," she begins without a moment's hesitation.

"Yeah, so?" I interject.

She ignores me and speaks as if I hadn't said a thing. "In fact, everyone knows that. _He's_ probably figured it out by now. He was definitely in denial for a while there, but I'm pretty sure he's discovered his feelings now.—Please keep in mind that a lot of this is speculation, though, so you can't rely on everything I'm saying.—But, anyway, he's not the only one experiencing denial, is he?" She looks up at me for the first time since I entered the room, a grin about her face that is actually very becoming of her. "You are, too."

"What?" I say, almost astonished and yet not surprised in the least (not the first time for that today). "No. I'm seriously not in denial."

She almost laughs for what must be the fiftieth time since we met earlier. "Does anyone experiencing denial ever say, 'Yes, I'm experiencing denial.'? No. You know why? Because you wouldn't be in denial if you didn't deny it." She lets the giggles out for a moment before concluding, "You two have been flirting since the first time I've ever laid eyes on the two of you together."

"_He_'s been flirting," I correct immediately—rather haughtily, I might add. "_I_ have _not_ been flirting. _I've_ been _arguing_."

"Which is childish flirting," she says, easily pushing away my words with a quick flick of the wrist. And, just like that, they carry no meaning. "Either way, it's _still_ flirting."

Angry at how she can do that using a voice totally devoid of feelings toward the matter, I open my mouth to counter that point when someone else knocks on the doorjamb. Lucy and I both look up immediately at the person standing there in the doorway, and, barely, out of the corner of my eyes, I see her smile a normal, sweet smile. Now, what exactly is Neil Perry doing here? My eyebrows raise at all the possibilities that are suddenly crossing my mind. Hmm, better not to ask.

When he notices me, though, Neil falters, not sure what to say or do in response to my presence. He didn't think that Lucy and I were friends, now did he? But, of course, we weren't until today. And, honestly, I'm still not even sure if we're actually friends yet. "Uh, oh, hi, Moira," he says, his eyes shifting confusedly between the two of us. "Uh, I can wait or some—"

I laugh and stand up, interrupting him without any apprehension. "I'll be back to talk to you again later, Lucy," I say to her before walking past Neil into the hallway, a big grin plastered on my face. Sure, I can only guess what they're doing together, but they both seem quite eager to be alone together. I look back at them as he enters and begins to talk to her. I never would have guessed that the two of them would like each-other, but, looking at them now, their feelings are very obvious. Neil Perry and Lucy Nesbit. Rather cute, actually.

I shut the door for them and retire to my own dormitory again, where I find Jessica still working on her homework. As I plop down on my bed to relax until it's time to meet the Dead Poets outside at eleven o'clock, she lightly comments on how quickly I came back. I nod in response and say that I want to catch a little sleep before it's time to go. She quickly agrees to make sure I'm awake before she goes to sleep, and I roll over on my side, my back to the rest of the room, to get comfortable.

But, unsurprisingly enough, I can't stop my mind from racing. Just like Lucy predicted, I can't stop thinking about our conversation and, frustratingly enough, Charlie Dalton. Oh, God, I seriously can't have him finding his way into my dreams, too.


	11. Smite Me Please

_Okay, so I know it's been a little while since I updated this fic, but this is probably my favorite fanfic of all the fanfics in all the fandoms I'm writing, so there's no way in hell I'm ever abandoning it._

_I'd have to say that we're a little more than halfway finished with it now. I'm gonna say it'll be about twenty chapters long, but it's still pretty difficult to say for now._

_WARNING: This chapter is one of the main reasons it's rated M. All right, I'm pretty sure there will be some sexual stuff later, but, for now, this is it. It's really just Charlie's mind, though, sadly._

_Oh, and I apologize beforehand for Charlie's somewhat rudeness toward God. I don't like to offend anyone, and it's really not that bad, but I thought I'd forewarn you._

_Anatui_

* * *

_Chapter 11 – Smite Me Please._ (Charlie's POV)

Even after all the time I had to prepare for his questions, I still wasn't ready by the time we reached our dormitory. Besides, two in the morning is way too early to be interrogated by your best friend, even if the interrogation is well deserved. So, only moments after we shut the door, Knox is already staring at me curiously, with his eyes saying, "You know you want to tell me what happened," and I just hate him for those damn eyes.

For a moment, when he doesn't say anything, I consider that he's going to let me off easily this time, but that thought is pushed away when he finally speaks. "What took you guys so long to get back?" he asks curiously. He's just wondering. He doesn't really mean anything by it, I know. But I can't help but go all defensive at the thought of why Irish and I took so long to get back to the Indian cave. It was nearly time to go when we returned. We missed almost the entire meeting, except the very beginning before she had realized she was missing something.

"I left something inside," were her exact words. "I need to go back and get it." And that was it—those fateful, frustrating words. She just _had_ to take a stupid nap before it was time to go the cave. And, when she woke up, she just _had_ to forget that she wanted to bring something with her to the meeting. How stupid of her. Just utterly… ugh, frustrating.

I guess, to an extent, she's really lucky that Neil volunteered me to be a chivalrous gentleman earlier. Extremely lucky. If I hadn't been there with her, she probably would have been caught by that dumb teacher—you know, the one that loves to catch students out of bed, especially two of the opposite sex now that it's possible, just so he can give them demerits and detentions. But we weren't caught—all because of me, thank you very much. But did you hear her ever thank me? No, she didn't. But, then again, maybe she got a little distracted.

In response to Knox's question, I merely shrug, not wanting to give anything away—even though I probably will because, let's face it, hiding things from Knox isn't exactly my specialty. "She took too long," I say, trying to move away from what happened after that, but trying not to sound too accusing. Placing the blame on her might make it feel all better, but it doesn't help matters, especially when Knox would see that as a way to divert attention away from me. Which it would be, of course. Not that I did anything wrong, though, because I didn't.

Knox isn't convinced, though. Not that I had really expected him to be. He's a smart kid, even if he's an extremely dumb kid. "She didn't take an entire hour and a half just to find her notebook," he said scathingly, not impressed, "which, by the way, she never even came back with. What's the deal with that? Care to shine some light?"

Oh, that, well, I had decided to be an asshole to her because I resented her (and Neil, for that matter) for making me go along on some stupid waste of time. Besides, I really don't like being alone with her now that I (begrudgingly) know my true feelings for her. It's a lot easier to deal with someone when you don't realize that you're practically head over fucking heels for her. Being just sexually attracted to her is so much easier because I don't care about her opinion of me (or, at least, that's what I told myself). But now, when before I would only loosely note her appealing features, now I can barely take my eyes off her. So, yeah, I hate her for it. Because I'm not sure if I can trust myself around her anymore. I mean, there are tons and tons of things that I can imagine doing to her, but acting any of those possibilities out would be… life-threatening. And tonight's events proved that to be _very_ true—not the life-threatening part, the imagination part.

But I can't exactly tell him all of that, now can I? Well, I could, but that doesn't sound like the smartest thing to do. I'm not a big fan of him mocking me for having feelings for her and then telling me that "everything will turn out all right in the end" because that's _so_ bullshit. I'd be utterly stupid if I told him everything that happened.

"The teacher that monitors her floor heard us and came looking," I say instead.

Not a lie, seriously, but not exactly the entire answer to the question. It's definitely not enough to sate his curiosity. There've got to be millions of questions he's dying to ask me, and, knowing Knox, he isn't about to give up quite yet. Maybe in half an hour. Shit, half an hour! I don't want to waste a whole half an hour talking about how I'm a good-for-nothing son-of-a-bitch and how I so desperately deserve to drowned in my own vomit because I'm a really horny teenage boy and Moira O'Brien is extremely attractive, especially when shoved up against a wall with that look of utter surprise on her face. Uh, yeah, definitely a bad idea to say that out loud.

"So you hid? In the room?" he asks urgently.

Heh-heh, not really. You see, I'd already been an asshole to her by that point, so we'd given up on the search, already on our way back to the cave. Maybe we should've stayed longer to look, though, because that might've saved us about an hour of our lives for me not to embarrass myself horribly and look like I only think with one thing. God, please let me die right now. Smite me, anything. Even plague would do.

When nothing happens, no smiting, no plague, no random bit of lightning coming through the window, I resign myself to responding. "No, we couldn't. We had already left the room by then." Damn you, God, for not smiting me.

Knox was very dubious of this statement, though, and was not afraid to make this point known. "Then why didn't she have her notebook?" he asked.

I roll my eyes again. Because I made her stop looking, of course. Because, again, I felt like being an asshole to her. I honestly love to bicker with her, so any time that I'm being an asshole to her means that she's going to fight with me, which is probably one of the most thrilling things in the world. Besides, any time that I'm being an asshole is time that I'm not allowed enough time to think about other things, like what's hiding under that tantalizingly short skirt of hers.

"Is this an interrogation?" I snap indignantly.

I already know the answer to that one, too. Of course it's an interrogation. He wants to know every grimy little detail with nothing left out, no matter how embarrassing it is for me, no matter how very private a subject it is. God, it's amazing how devious he can be, even when he's really the nicest person in the world. It's kind of sickening in a strange way.

He rolls his eyes but answers nonetheless, a grin forming on his face despite all the glares sent his way. "Yes. Now answer the question," he demands.

Because I really have nothing better to do—than _sleep_—I humor him and answer the question that he so _kindly_ asked. "She was taking too long," I say. That part's true, I swear. I kind of left out the part where I was getting frustrated with seeing her bend over and get on her knees, sticking her ass up in the air, every single time she was searching for it, though. Because, let's face it, when she's doing that, I can't move my eyes away from the sight, no matter how embarrassing it is when she turns around and catches me checking her out.

"Fifteen minutes and she couldn't find it, so I told her that we should get back," I continue. Yes, those fifteen minutes of me watching her rump. For the most part, I hardly noticed the time go by because I was so distracted by the fact that her bending like that made it almost possible to see her panties. Fucking frustrating. Of course, it wasn't like the lack of light wasn't frustrating either because all I could see by was moonlight, but it was a full moon, so that was a little bit convenient.

"She can find it some other time and bring it," I conclude, scathingly adding to the end, "as long as she doesn't forget it again." Definitely true. I'd rather her looking for it all over the place when I'm not in the room to drool over her, because I was honestly really close to doing that. God, why won't you smite me, dammit?!

But, alas, Knox is very good at ignoring any scathing comments I might have to say. In fact, he hardly seems to even notice that I said it. Instead, he continues with his game of Twenty Questions. "So where did you end up hiding?" he inquires.

Getting frustrated with all this nonsense (among other things), I take out a cigarette and my lighter but hesitate to light it. I don't want him to see my hands shaking as I do it, because I'm pretty sure that they still are. Not that I'm scared, mind you, but I was a bit shaken by everything that happened earlier, if you must know. "I don't know," I respond slowly. "Some dark corner, I guess. We had to stay there for a long time, until he finally turned the lights off in his room. Then, maybe ten minutes later, we felt it safe to leave. We went straight back to you guys after that." I wait for a moment when he isn't looking to light it and then hungrily pull it to my lips.

That's my longest response, I know, and he's probably a bit suspicious of that, but everything I said is true. It was a nice secluded dark corner, actually, perfect for making-out with someone—and hiding from the evil teacher that hates everyone's guts. In fact, he was so bent on catching someone that he stayed up and listening for the longest time. He'd probably heard us bickering when I was trying to get her out of the room and back to the cave.

"You don't need that," he reprimands when he looks up at me again, glowering.

Again, major eye-rolling. Since when did Knox get the idea that he can tell me what to do? And does he honestly think that I'll be listening to him and obeying him, too? After putting up with all his questions and prying, hell no. "So?" I say.

"So, put it out," he sighs. Yes, he knows that I'm not going to obey him. That's what that sigh means, and he knows I know it. But, despite not being all that fond of this topic of conversation, I'm glad that we're not talking about tonight for a moment.

I laugh scornfully. "You're one to talk."

He's not impressed by my childish bickering, though, because he knows me—probably far better than I know myself, honestly. He knows what I'm trying to do. I'm so trying to divert his attention away from a topic that, from just thinking about it, could probably turn me on again, which, by the way, is not something I really want to happen. So Knox just rolls his eyes at me and says, "Yeah, and you're covering your ass. Why are you so edgy?"

Sighing, I lean back against the wall behind my bed, exhausted from everything that happened tonight, very tired and ready to go to sleep, if only Knox would just let me be so I _could_. It was too exciting, it wore me out. But, like he explained, I continue to try to 'cover my ass,' because that's just what I do. "I'm not," I say as I try to get comfortable.

And, then, the world part: He begins to smile at me knowingly. He thinks he's onto something. Which he probably is because he's too damn smart for his own good. "Something happened," he says with a devilish grin. Shit, he's good. And I hate him for it. It's so frustrating to not be able to keep a secret, even if it's from my best friend.

"What? No, it didn't," I deny, partially to myself still. "Nothing happened. In fact, there's nothing that could happen." And now I'm just overreacting. Like Gertrude said in _Hamlet_, "The lady doth protest too much, methinks." Or something like that. Only I'm not a lady. Which I'm sure Irish noted just about an hour ago. God, why the fuck aren't you smiting me?!

He's grinning, though. Not God. Knox. Well, God probably is, too. He's probably up there right now, laughing at me for being a fucking idiot and enjoying every minute of it. If He doesn't smite me soon, I'm going to become an atheist. Not that I'm all that convinced by religion to begin with, but that's entirely beside the point.

So, anyway, Knox is grinning, and that's not good. It means that I have only succeeded in totally convincing him that something happened, which nothing did. But, alas, nothing I could say could change his mind now. Shit. "Yes, it did. Did you tell her? Did you make a move on her? Did she turn you down?" he questions quickly, obviously excited by this new development. You know what, God, smite him, too, because he certainly deserves it, not as much as me but he still deserves it.

"No!" I cry, all honesty. What does he think I am? the most idiotic, self-assured man in the entire world? Although, on second thought, it's not like that's too far off. But I'm honestly not stupid enough to do either of those two things he suggested that I did. For one thing, if it were the first one, I might be missing the most important part of my body, and, if it were the second, I wouldn't even be alive to tell the story to Knox, so he's got some nerve to think that I did either of them. "I didn't do anything. I'm not stupid, thank you. You must want me dead if you really want me to do any of those things, though. I'm not you, and Moira O'Brien is certainly not Chris." Yes, that's the perfect thing to remind him of. Chris may be all right with a guy sexually molesting her while she asleep, but Moira O'Brien would exact her revenge without a second thought as to who it was, even if she had had a crush on the guy.

Honestly, though, what happened was probably worse than any rejection would have been, like he had suggested. I'm not stupid enough to ask her out or make-out with her, and his suggestion that I had is somewhat insulting to my intelligence. Of course, it's not like I can hide the facts from her now, because she must have the idea that I'm, in the very least, sexually attracted to her.

God, please smite me already.

There was one thing terribly wrong with what happened, though. Well, not gonna lie, more than that. Maybe two. Or three or four. At least.

Well, for one, I had (and still somewhat have, mind you) a splitting headache that seriously made me want to chop off my head. And that was probably the wisest thing I wanted to do at that time.

Two, do you know how dark it was out there? It was so difficult to see anything, and I'm not a big fan of the dark. I mean, I'm not scared, but I prefer to see what's going on around me, so it's really rather rational, don't you think? And we certainly couldn't turn on our flashlights because… well, that would've been just fucking idiotic.

Three, I cannot, for the life of me, remember what that stupid teacher's name is. I know I know his name, but I really can't think of it. And I know he knew someone was there. That's why he took so long to be convinced that we had already gone. And I just like to know my opponents.

Four, I was (and, honestly, definitely still am) so fucking horny.

And, lastly, when I heard Mr. I-Don't-Care-If-You're-Really-a-Good-Student-I'm-Still-Going-to-Torture-You-into-Oblivion, I had acted quickly and pushed her into that lovely, secluded, dark corner and out of sight. Now, that's all fine and dandy until you get to the point where I had to push her up against a wall to get us both out of sight and she wasn't exactly eager to hide. She had probably thought I was coming onto her. She had thought that I was making a move, which I most definitely was not. I'm totally innocent in this. I would never make a move on her—not a real one, anyway. I know she'd kill me, as previously stated above, I'm sure. Or at least remove some body parts that I definitely want intact. I'm so not stupid enough to make a move on her.

So there we were. Just the two of us in that little nook. Right beside the place where the teacher that was supposed to make sure the girls are in their beds resides. In a position we definitely shouldn't have been in. Because she so thought I was making a move on her. But, again, we've already been over this. I'm not that fucking stupid.

But, honestly, looking back, I somewhat, kind of really wish I were that stupid. If being stupid means that I get to kiss her, among other things, I wish I could be stupid for the rest of my life. Ah, if only it didn't have all the… _painful_ consequences. But it does. So I think, probably for the rest of my life, I'll stay safe and not be stupid… not extremely so, at least.

But her body being flush against mine wasn't helping—and neither is the memory of it now. My thoughts are still going haywire because of it. Because I was constantly trying not to focus on the fact that I had her up against the wall just like I've wanted for Lord knows how long but I couldn't do anything with it. It's frustrating, you know. Don't you ever just want to do something so much but you know you can't? And just knowing that you can't is just making it worse, making you want to do it more. That's what it was like.

And that's just plain depressing, honestly.

After a while, it got really, really annoying. Still a little annoying, honestly. Part of me wishes that it had lasted so much longer, but the wiser, saner side is extremely happy that it's finally over so that I can be normal and not pretty much rubbing my bulging pants against her pelvic area—because that's about what ended up happening, I'm ashamed to admit.

I don't like feeling that way—nervous and insecure in the face of a woman. But that was only because I was totally randy. I know she could feel it, too, and she could tell exactly what I was thinking. If she hadn't realized before how very attracted I am to her, I sincerely hope she realizes it now because it's been made extremely obvious. And I know she's far from dense.

I really just wanted to look at her to judge her reaction, but, at the same time, I was very nervous about what that would be. I mean, she was probably extremely disgusted by the fact that holding her in that position (and considering all the possibilities that could have ensued—all the possibilities that I was trying so hard to avoid thinking about) gives me a fucking erection. If I were her, I would have been. Totally, utterly disgusted.

I mean, all I would have had to do is shift a little this way and tilt my head a little that way and we would've been good to go. Push her up as closely against the wall as possible until you can barely tell the difference between her and me. Move my hips against hers in a way that's sure to elicit some sensual sound from that mouth of her. Run my hands up and down her sides, building up the courage to slip them under her skirt. Play a little with the edge of her panties there—snap—before moving my fingers under the edge and sliding along with it around between her and me as I pull back to allow myself more room. Her heat lies there, and, oh, how I want to steal that heat from her. But I hold back, removing my hand and pulling her toward me before slamming her up against the wall again with my own body. At that point, I finally smash my lips to hers and drink in her sweet flavor there.

Uh, er, um, anyway… as much as I wanted to do that, I'm still not stupid enough to act on my sexual notions because, again, she'd _fucking kill me_. I know she would—and she knew that I know, too, so she knew that I wouldn't intentionally do something. But she also knows how very much I want to, obviously. God, she's never going to let me live that down now that she knows exactly how much I want her. Even now, without her flush against me, taunting me, teasing me, I'm still fucking screwed. And not in the good way, not in the least. Please, God, why won't you smite me yet?

But, anyway, back to reality, where my lapse of sanity has taken up far less time than you would have thought, Knox is talking to me again. Stupid boy. I really don't care that much. But he still talks. "Okay, no need to kill me, jeez," he's saying. "I get the picture." He sighs, knowing that he said something that was beyond stupid. But he's still curious, and he's still under the impression that _something_ happened, which, I guess, if you're being entirely correct, something did, but it was nothing more than a horny boy getting turned on. "Then why are you all jittery? What's up?"

I groan. I really don't want to answer all his questions, you know. I shouldn't have to be put through more torment after earlier. I've had enough trouble for one night. And I really just want to go back to the peaceful world of sleep where I'm having sex with Irish and she's fighting me off but still willing. And, you know, Knox—he's just a fantasy-ruiner. Scowling at him, keeping this thought in mind, I tell him, "I hate you, you know that?"

"Why?" he asks. Hah, like he doesn't know. He's acting oblivious to spite me now. He wants to torture me, too, even after all the things I've gone through already. God, I hate him. But, I guess I'm feeling a tad bit nice because, eh, I'll humor him anyway.

Scathingly, I glare at him and say, "Two reasons: One, ever since you told me that shit in English earlier today, that's all I've been thinking about. And, two—"

He interrupts me eagerly. "So you've finally come to the conclusion that you like her?" Maybe it wasn't a good idea to tell him that, though, because I'm just boosting that ego of his, and, you know, despite not being egotistical (like, say, me), an ego boost for him is still not a good idea. It just makes him more and more annoying. I'm not sure if I can handle a more annoying Knoxious at this point in time.

All I do is glare at him. Obviously. I just admitted it, didn't I?

He grins, just to spite me, I'm sure. "You have. It took you forever." Seriously, he's getting way too happy about the fact that I've admitted that I like her. It's not that big of a deal. (Yes, it is.) And it's not like it's changing much in my life because nothing's really changed. (Yes, it is, and, yes, it has.) Damn, I am so in denial, and he knows it.

"Yeah, that's nice," I snap angrily. Sometimes, I really just hate him so much.

Completely ignoring any glares or rude gestures I might possibly be sending his way, he questions, "What's two?" And he says it in such a normal, only somewhat curious voice that, for just one tiny second, I feel inclined to answer without a temper. Hah, yeah right.

Although it faltered, my glare is still in place, but I manage to respond all the same. "Two," I say through gritted teeth, "I'm trying to have some sexual fantasies here and you're ruining totally them." I'm pretty sure my glare actually strengthens. But, wait, did I mean to say that out loud? Hmm, even I'm not really sure.

But with those few words, his position on the matter automatically changes. To sarcasm. "Oh, gee, really sorry there, Nuwanda," he says, mock apologizing. "I didn't realize that you were so much of a coward, afraid to actually go up to her and ask her out or make-out with her, that you have to _fantasize_ about undressing her."

He's challenging me. I hate him for it. How dare he say that I'm a coward?! I am not. I'm just not stupid, unlike him. But, then again, Chris isn't exactly the kind of girl that would _murder_ him when he put the moves on her at that stupid party. Besides, in my own defense, even if I had made-out with her, I'd probably still fantasize about undressing her and more.

So I roll my eyes at him. "You try undressing her in reality and get back to me. I'd really love to see how well that works out for you," I snap sardonically. But then I allow myself to speak a bit more realistically and calmly. "If she hated your guts and you were in love with her, would you have the balls to ask her out on one tiny date, let alone make-out with her?" I say, barely thinking about the words that come out of my mouth. It's not until after Knox replies that I realize the words I uttered.

"Oh my God," he says in amazement, "you're in love with her."

Shit, did I say that out loud?

"I mean," he continues, not even really noticing the look of utter horror on my face, "I knew that you liked her and that's already a big step for you, but _love_—that's just, that's just… wow." He's so articulate, isn't he?

I would have laughed at him if I had felt like laughing, but the thought that you just said you were in love with someone when you didn't even really know it for sure yourself is a bit distracting and far from funny.

I take in a deep breath, turn off the light, and roll over to try to fall asleep.

God, why the fuck won't you smite me?!


	12. Ashamed

_All right, I'm just sooooo sorry that it took me so long to write this for you. I just finished it, and I wanted to post it as soon as possible. I really want to finish this story, though, so I'm devoting all my fanfic writing to this one fic. I'm at least halfway through the next chapter, and I have a bit of the fourteenth written, too, but not much. I'm going to try to update this as soon as I can._

_Again, I'm really sorry, and thank you so much for waiting._

_Anatui_

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_Chapter 12 – Ashamed. (Moira's POV)_

Lucy's eyes snap up as I enter her bedroom, sighing and immediately taking up the bed that she isn't occupying, but they quickly flit back down to the page on which she's scribbling. "How has your day been?" she asks, her voice calm and bland, as if she doesn't care in the least. She may act as if she doesn't all she likes, but I know different. In the past several weeks, we've gotten to know each other much better. We're friends, I guess you could say.

I sigh again and shrug, not sure how to answer. What a silly question for her to ask really. We've seen each other all day, and she can easily tell when I'm not feeling well. She knows that something is bothering me. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if she knew everything about what's bothering me. Sometimes, I think she's psychic. "It's been all right, I guess," I admit quietly, "though it certainly could've been better."

Her pen flits across the page of her notebook quickly, and she responds without stopping. She's very skilled. I wish I could multitask like that. "One of _those_ days, huh?" she says indifferently.

I purse my lips and snap, "What's that supposed to mean?"

As always, she answers bluntly, not afraid of my temper as I've noticed many people are. "One of the days that you avoid talking to Charlie Dalton for what's probably the umpteenth time." Her bluntness is probably what makes me enjoy her company most, though. It's not very often that you find someone so honest and frank in this time, especially a woman. She's very perceptive, too, I'll admit.

I, however, will not admit to her statement. Even if I know it's true. I just won't. I mean, I have my pride to look after. Being caught avoiding or even thinking about Charlie Dalton is just… wrong. It's just wrong. So I respond evasively, per usual. "What're you even talking about?" I say, pushing myself up against the wall, crossing my legs, glaring angrily. "Why would I avoid Dalton?—other than the usual reasons. I mean, he hasn't been any stupider than normal."

I'm very good at denial. I'm just not very good at getting Lucy to believe me. She laughs melodically and says, "That's the point. He _hasn't_ been any stupider. In fact, I think he's rather improved, don't you agree?" In all fairness, I don't think anyone is really good at getting Lucy to believe them, though. Somehow, she just knows whether or not the person is telling the truth. It's a little bit creepy. Intriguing, though. And frustrating. Very frustrating.

"I don't think so, Lucy," I say, scowling. Dalton could never improve. It's just physically impossible. I'm sure I could get the Physics professor to agree to this postulation, too. "And if he were, how would that be any cause to avoid him more than usual?"

Finally looking up from her writing, she laughs again—this time in my face. She thinks I'm silly or crazy or something. "Because, silly girl," she says, proving my point, "if he's not being as stupid as usual, that means you don't have cause to hate him as much as you desperately want to. And to be perfectly frank, you like to hate him. It's so much easier to just hate him than trying to find something worth liking inside all that madness. Not to mention the fact that, if you hate him, you couldn't possibly have a crush on him, now could you?"

Lips pursed, I inhale deeply to prepare myself for a very long argument about this. She's in this to win, I know. It's what she does. If she starts an argument, she has to win it, even if she's wrong—which she is! (It's kind of funny, though, because that one thing is all we have in common.) "Oh, now you're being stupid," I snap, rolling my eyes. "I'm not avoiding him, and he's just as stupid as he's always been. End of conversation." Why can't I be the one to win the argument? I'm just as stubborn as she is.

She gives me this look of disbelief but turns back down to her paper. "If you say so," she replies lightly, pressing down her pen to write more, and I heave a sigh of relief. She's going to drop it. That's really all I want right now. Silence. No drama, no arguments, no complaining, no worries. Besides, I just really hate talking about him, which I know she knows, but she always has to push the matter, doesn't she? She enjoys it way too much. She relishes bugging me almost as much as he does.

A light knock sounds on the door, and we both look over to it to see Neil standing there, beaming as if there's absolutely nothing wrong in all the world. I guess in his world, there isn't much wrong at all. It's rather sickening. "Hello," he says happily, smiling at the both of us. And then, my presence seems to register. Shouldn't he realize by now that this is where I always am, considering he's always walking in on the two of us together? "Oh, there you are, Moira!" he says, grin still in place. "Charlie's looking for you, and nobody could find you."

I stiffen at the words, and my eyes dart across the room to eye Lucy suspiciously. I don't really think she has anything to do with Dalton's madness or his looking for me, but for some reason, she just seems to be the person at fault. Mostly because she's the one enjoying this. Turning back to him, I ask coldly, "Why?"

"Huh?" He's dazed, the poor boy—caught up his little world of Lucy-this and Lucy-that. Why don't they just getting fucking married already? They're so cute, it's disgusting. Of course, that might also have to do with my current state of bitterness and anger.

"Why is he looking for me?" I clarify carefully, not wanting to alarm him in any way. I'm sure he'd be willing to run off to his little best friends and ramble about how I'm avoiding Dalton like the plague—that is, _if_ he remembers to. He'd probably forget after this coming Lucy-session. Gross, so gross.

Neil is apparently sane enough still to respond to my question in full sentences, though, so he hasn't completely been taken in by the ever-omniscient Lucy Nesbit. "I'm not sure," he says, furrowing his brow. "I think there was something about some poem he's working on, but I dunno. Sounded like an excuse to talk to you to me, but he seemed pretty serious."

On the opposite side of the dormitory, Lucy is laughing, obviously very amused by the situation. "Oh, Neil," she says amiably—the first hint of any emotion in her voice in the past couple days, I think. "Don't you know that nothing anyone could say could get her to leave me alone?" When she looks at him, she can barely take her eyes off him. And she thinks I'm head over heels. Yeah right.

Poor, innocent Neil, though, has no clue at all. "Oh," he replies, confused, "and why's that?"

A devious grin makes its way across the girl's face, and she's still beaming as she explains to him. "Because she's desperately avoiding him, and he's apparently too scared of me to enter this room." Oh no. Both of them have that look in their eyes—the one that means they think they're the only ones in the room. Now they will continue to have a conversation about me, but they will act as if I'm not even in the room.

"I don't know about scared, but he certainly thinks you're weird," I interject, attempting to stop the oncoming Lucy/Neil time.

But it has already begun. Neither of them even notices I said a word. "And why exactly is she avoiding him?" he asks. Damn him and his stupid questions.

God, I'm fucking screwed now. If Lucy isn't going to help me, how will I survive? And how in hell will I ever be able to avoid Dalton now? Not that I'm avoiding him, of course, but if I were, Lucy would probably be the one that I would turn to.

Lucy's response is… shall we say, a little out there. "Because she's in love with him, and she's afraid to admit it," she says with a happy smile on her face, as if she were commenting on the weather or her recent score on her history quiz. This girl is just… I don't know, but she's insane. Sometimes I just hate her, but sometimes I really just need someone to talk to who will listen. Of all people, I know she will.

Right now, though, she isn't being so compliant, causing me to roll my eyes again. That is so not true. There is no way that I am in love with Charlie Dalton—of every single person in the world, Charlie Dalton! I want to counter her words, but something holds me back. I'm just speechless, I guess. I didn't really expect that. It's just so wrong that I never would have even thought of it. She's insane.

Amazingly enough, even Neil gives her a funny look, glancing at me to take in my reaction before forming an opinion on the statement. He doesn't know what to say either, so he settles for hesitantly saying, "Are you sure?"

She twists her pen around in her hand, glancing between Neil and myself before responding assuredly, "Positive. He's been too nice to her for the past three weeks, and she hates him for it. Seriously, though, he's barely even hit on her, and you have to give him credit for the chivalry."

I'm not sure whether she is talking to me or to Neil, but either way, the answer is no. Even if it has been meant for him, I still reply angrily, "No, I don't." I don't like where this conversation is headed.

Even so, she ignores me. God, what is it about me that makes it impossible for the two of them to hear anything I say? They're just going off into their own little world. Can't I just have my friends back? Can't they just be normal? No, they just want to have their precious alone time. I'm not sure what exactly they do during this alone time that they have, but I don't think it's anything sexual—at least not yet. One day maybe, but not now.

Still standing in the doorway, Neil shrugs. "I have absolutely no idea what happened between them," he admits, "but it's driven them both mad. She's too scared to look at him, and he's being the nicest person in the world. It's weird."

He's right about the nicest-person-in-the-world bit. It is weird. But I am not too scared to look at him. I just don't want to look at him when he's looking at me, which he always seems to be doing. I don't want to give him the idea that I like him or anything. Only Dalton would ever surmise something like that from a single look in his direction.

"It's called being totally whipped," reasons Lucy, finally gesturing him inside the room, and he takes a couple steps past the door before finally settling in the empty chair. She's still talking, explaining. "They're madly in love but too afraid to admit it to each other. She's worried about her stupid pride, and he's worried that she's going to chop off his balls, which, I'll admit, is quite probable at this point in time."

He's curious more than anything now, and they're both bent on figuring the situation out. I really don't want them to do that. "Do you have any idea what happened between them?" he asks.

For the first time, Lucy shrugs. "She hasn't said a thing. But it started that night that you all went to the Indian cave for the Dead Poets thing." She's certainly suspicious, eyeing me carefully.

"Or rather," he corrects kindly, "when the two of them came back to her room to pick up her notebook, stayed for over an hour, and returned without it."

She turns back to him and nods in agreement. "Something must have happened then," she determined. "The next day, she was jittery and dazed, and if I remember correctly, Dalton didn't say a word to her. If that doesn't sound as if they're having sex behind everyone's backs, I don't know what does."

That's just going a little too far. I can handle all the ignoring me and the talking as if I'm not there, but her saying that I am having sex with Charlie Dalton is just too much. I would never do that. I just—that's so gross! The mere insinuation is disgusting me right now, and I finally snap. "Oh, will you two quit talking about me as if I weren't here!" I snarl, pushing myself forward on the bed.

The two continue, however, hardly noticing that I said anything at all. They're just great friends, aren't they? "You're right," Neil nods slowly, "something happened that night, but I'm not convinced that they had sex. I don't really think Moira would do that." At least someone has a little faith in me, but Neil and not Lucy? Frustrating.

Lucy nodes, though, in agreement and hesitantly responds, "Hmm, I can't help but agree. She most definitely wouldn't."

At last, the two turn to examine me, finally seeming to realize that I'm here. The jerks. They look at me as if they don't see me, though, and to be honest, I'm more insulted by that than by their ignoring me in the first place.

Sighing angrily, I say, "Would you two give up on it already? Nothing happened, let alone sex, and how dare you impugn my honor! I'm insulted by the very notion that… I could have possibly done _that_ with _him_!" To an extent, I'm at a loss for words. I just don't have a response to that, I'm so appalled.

As soon as I close my mouth, Lucy gets a small little smirk on her face—and I know she's been plotting this conversation in that silly head of hers for the past three weeks, or almost that long. "Then, why, my dear, are you avoiding him?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at me. Damn her.

"I-I'm not!" I stutter unconvincingly. Yes, this is the perfect time for my voice and speech to desert me entirely. God help me.

Her smirk widens, and she continues with a devious glint in her eyes. "Well, if you're not, we'll just have to assume that you're having sex with him," she reasons, finally looking back down at her pen and paper, shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly. I know she's faking it, though. She's deathly curious. "I mean, it's the only really plausible explanation of why you two took so long to return, and why he's being so nice to you, and why you're avoiding him."

"We did not have sex!" I exclaim in my own defense, but it doesn't seem to be working on her.

"Hmm," she says as if considering, "I want to believe you, Moira, but I can't think of anything else that could explain it all. If you can come up with a better theory, believe me, I'm all ears. But until then, this is the only thing I can think of."

She's just fishing for answers now, and I'm too tired of this. I don't know what to say in response to any of that. Any denial only seems to prove positive in her mind, and I just can't deal with this. I can't. I don't know how.

Frustrated beyond belief, I push myself off the bed to my feet and leave in a huff. Part of me wants to dramatically slam the door behind me, but that would just be silly. I'm not a drama queen, and honestly I hate melodrama. I'm just frustrated, and I'll get over that eventually. Just once I've calmed down for a while. I just can't handle her nagging right now.

I have no idea where I am going, but I just want to be away from those two. They're too… just gross. I can hardly stand them. God, they're making faces at each other all the time, and it's so disgusting.

Maybe I've just been spending too much time with Lucy lately. Almost every time I'm there, Neil comes in, and they act like a couple. But they're not a couple. Jeez, what is wrong with them? If those two don't get together soon, I'm going to… I don't know, do something in my state of agitation. Mostly I just want revenge on them for saying all that stuff just then.

Sigh.

They're right, though. Not about the sex part, of course, because that's not going to happen. I am avoiding him, though, and I can't deny that to myself anymore. Ever since we went to that Dead Poets meeting when I ran off to get my notebook and… _that_ happened—ever since then, I haven't been able to look him in the eye. I haven't been able to even think about Charlie Dalton without thinking about what happened.

God, I'm such a coward.

I push my way out of the building and into the chilly evening air. It's much colder than I thought it would be, but I wasn't really thinking about putting something on over in the uniform either. It's almost winter here, and I know that snow should be coming soon. To be honest, I'm ready for it. It'll remind me of home and Ireland, and I really just want to go home right now.

I'm a coward, I know.

I want to be home, where I know it's safe and normal. I don't like it here. I hate it sometimes. And I really hate most of the people here. But at the same time, I don't know how easy it would be for me to go home now. I've experienced so much here, and I love Lucy to death, even if she annoys the hell out of me. She's my best friend, despite my knowing her for only three weeks. And the Dead Poets are all great, too. Well, except Ricky because he's just a brownnoser and Dalton because… well, because of obvious reasons.

When at last I look around, I realize where I am. It's cold still, and the long expanse of the lake spreads out before me, glistening in the setting sun. It's beautiful really, and I sit down beside it and swing my legs over the side of the banks, letting them hang just barely above the water edge. Maybe I'll be able to relax here and sort out my thoughts, I decide, leaning back upon the ground and shutting my eyes.

A part of me seriously suspects that this was Lucy's plan all along. She wanted to get me out of that room, so that I would actually give her some space and some alone time with Neil—and so that I would actually talk to Dalton. But I won't. I just won't. I refuse. I don't want to talk to him.

If my theory is true, though, it obviously worked. I mean, I wouldn't be out here if it didn't. And now I'm a little ashamed. I actually succumbed to their peer pressure, even though I didn't want to. I didn't even realize that I was doing it, and I did.

I sigh and finally force my brain to turn off. I don't want to think about any of this anymore. It's just good for my mental sanity. Too much drama makes me want to shut out everything and everyone. I hate it so much, but it just seems as if a teenage life attracts drama. Well, I refuse to be taken in by that madness.

Footsteps sound in the distance, and a voice calls out to me, trying not to startle me. "Hey, are you awake?" Although I refuse to open my eyes, the owner of the voice somehow knows that I am. "I wanted to talk to you." I can hear him stopping next to me and then sitting down beside me.

I recognized the voice as soon as I heard it. Hell, I could have recognized him by the sound of his footsteps. "Can I ask you something?" I say curiously, finally opening my eyes and pushing myself up again. It takes me a moment to turn to him and look him in the eye, and Charlie Dalton looks back at me without any hesitation. I feel ashamed because I was too afraid to do that, too.

"What?" he asks, furrowing his brow.

I look away again and narrow my eyes in concentration. "Nothing, never mind. Don't worry about it." My eyes for some reason find my hands very fascinating, and I can no longer return his gaze. I'm so ashamed of myself.

He clears his throat slowly and says, "Listen, I'm really sorry about what happened." Amazingly enough, he sounds sincere. Not something I would have expected from him at all.

"You are?" I ask quickly, startled.

He hesitates for a moment, and when he finally speaks, his response isn't exactly what I had thought it would be. "Well, yes and no," he admits.

"What?"

"I'm sorry that it happened, but I've been working up the courage to talk to you about how I feel for a long time. Now I have a reason. And now I have a chance to be open with you."

When I look up at him, I'm curious. What exactly is he trying to tell me? Please don't let it be what I think it is. I'm not sure if I could handle that. I just don't want to complicate this any more than it already is. And it's already really complicated if you ask me.

But a part of me is wondering what is so special about him. What's the appeal to Charlie Dalton anyway? I mean, he's not exactly the most charming person in the world, which just makes me wonder if all the girls he talks about were only ever with him for the sexual appeal. That one kiss wasn't much to go on, though. I feel uninformed.

Before I even realize what's happening, we're both already leaning in, and his fingers are lightly moving across the buttons around my neck and undoing them. I don't stop him. I don't think I'd know how, even if I wanted to. Instead, I look up into his eyes, reach up to grab his tie, and pull his face down to meet mine, closing the distance between us. I need to find out if he can kiss as well as he seems to think he can. I need to find the appeal in Charlie Dalton. I'm desperately curious now.

His response is immediate, and he returns the kiss with more than equal fervor. I know he's been wanting to kiss me for a very long time, and I have to admit that my interest has been a little more than piqued. Before it even registers, our tongues are playing and fighting for the other's mouth, and he's ripped open the last two buttons on my shirt and is pushing it off my arms.

As soon as I'm free from my shirt's confines, I pull myself onto his lap and push him down to the ground, straddling his hips, my skirt flaring up and showing off my panties to the world.

I don't know why I'm doing this. I know I shouldn't. I know I'll regret it within the hour. My curiosity got the better of me. I shouldn't have—

I gasp into his mouth. His fingers are cold as they slip up my skirt and beneath my panties, and I can't help the whimper that escapes my lips as he begins to explore down there.

Taking me by surprise, he pulls away and rolls me over onto my back, hovering over me for a moment, hesitating. He's having a mental debate right now, I know it. He needs to seize what he wants, and right now, he wants me more than anything. I can tell from that excruciatingly large bulge in his pants and the way his eyes are boring into me. But he's hesitating, and I don't know why. Part of me doesn't want him to stop.

When he leans down to kiss me again, I meet him halfway, running my hands through his messy hair, down his neck and chest, toward his abdomen to undo the large belt buckle that's right in the way. He doesn't seem very impressed by my movements, though, as he pushes my hands away, which confuses me. He seems much more interested in touching every part of me he can reach than my touching him in the least.

He pulls away again, but this time he moves downward, his hands sliding down along my bare skin and then the confines of my skirt, which is rumpled and pushed up around my waist, displaying the lavender panties beneath. Gingerly, one cold finger slips beneath the thin fabric and lightly tugs at the elastic edge before delving between my hot, wet folds.

I can't help but moan.

Immediately, I feel bad. I shouldn't be doing this. This is teasing. I know he has feelings for me, and I'm taking advantage of that. But at the same time, it doesn't feel all that horrible because, even if he had no feelings for me, he'd still want to fuck me. God, does this make me a bad person? because I feel like a bad person right now.

But it feels so good.

He removes the finger, just as it was finally warming up, and before I can even begin to get over the loss of that finger, he's grasped the confines of my panties in his hand and ripped them away. I can feel a bit of a breeze, but that moment passes as he leans closer and, spreading my legs as wide as possible with his hands, plants a big, wet kiss on my exposed heat. When he extends his tongue into the sticky mess, I succumb to a long fit of moans and groans, my legs bypassing his hands' holding them apart and locking together around his shoulders. His hands eagerly move out of the way and down toward my arse, which they grip firmly.

My hands are clumping together tufts of grass hazardously and clawing the ground feverishly.

I moan his name more than once as he ravages my heat, no longer able to contain myself.

I want this. I want this so much. I don't want him to ever stop. This is far better than I thought it would be. I want this more than anything else.

I'm short of breath.

My breasts are heaving.

I need him inside me. Desperately.

I shut my eyes tightly in pleasure as I let out a deep, guttural moan.

When I open them again, I'm alone, half asleep on the shore of the lake, and it was all just a dream. I can hardly breathe, and it was just a dream. I'm lightly covered in sweat, and it was just a dream. My panties are soaked, and it was just a dream. My body is aching for him, and it was just a fucking dream.

God, I fucking hate you.

And stupid fucking Lucy and Neil. What I really need more than anything right now is them messing with my head. Everything would be fine if they just stopped meddling in my life. They just need to get together already, so that they get caught up in their own lives and romances. I'm perfectly fine rotting here on my own. I don't need their help.

Angry, I push myself to my feet and storm my way across the field back toward the dormitories and relative safety. Once inside, I'll be able to hide just as much as I really want to right now. Find a book and just read. Because I don't think I'll be getting much sleep tonight. That dream is all I'll be able to think about. And I don't want to think about it. I feel so ashamed. God, I hate that feeling. It's all I seem to be feeling right now.

The warmth of the building is nice, but I feel overheated almost immediately. God, I want to go home and get away from this madness. I think I'm going insane—more and more the longer I stay here, too.

When I reach the dormitory, the door is surprisingly open. Lucy's is shut, though, and I think I can hear her and Neil laughing together. I call, "Jessica?" as I step over the threshold, a little worried. I know she doesn't enjoy having the door open, so I'm confused. She always gets frustrated with me when I leave it open, so I slowly learned to do that as little as possible—or at least when I know she won't be there.

I receive no response, though, which is easily explained by the fact that she isn't even here. That startles me, too, because she's usually in the dorm in the evenings. Not to mention the fact that she was there when I was with Lucy earlier. The room is dark when I enter, and I quickly turn on the lights to try to find her.

"Jessica let me in."

I jump at the voice, immediately recognizing it, and turn to face Charlie Dalton, whom is sitting on my bed nonchalantly.

I'm going to kill that girl one of these days.


End file.
